


Digital War: Campaign II

by Trinity_Dragon



Series: Digital War [1]
Category: Digimon, Digimon - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, Gen, Implied Relationships, Original Character(s), Original Universe, POV Third Person Omniscient
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-10
Updated: 2019-01-19
Packaged: 2019-04-20 23:18:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 76,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14271711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trinity_Dragon/pseuds/Trinity_Dragon
Summary: Michael Delancy thought he was average. He thought he was normal. He thought wrong. Now, after a painful misunderstanding, he is swept up in events that he cannot control, and had never even imagined. A war is brewing on the horizons of the Digital World, and an Enemy with a power never before seen has set his sights on not only that world, but Earth as well. The question is not whether he will attack, but merely of when. And Michael is the only hope of saving either world.





	1. First Contact

           The day was lost to him. Michael felt it as soon as he woke that morning, keenly aware, also, of a ferocious, splitting headache. Without exception, morning after morning passed this way with no deviation that might have caused Michael Delancy to take pause. He would wake, shake off his covers and curse the metallic screech of his alarm clock. He would plod down to the small kitchen where his father often sat waiting, sipping an oversized mug of coffee, offering what was left in the carafe to his son. No thanks, he would say, and pour himself a glass of milk.

           Then he would try to wake up.

           Only one artery led traffic into the small town where he lived. It was devoid of action, adventure, or any newsworthy event at all. Sure, sometimes the occasional third-party politician would come charging into town, making speeches. But even that momentary excitement was mediocre. So, Michael had spent seventeen years in such dull conditions.

           It was with great effort that he managed to get up at all that morning. The recent few days had seen to his utter lack of energy, and barely any strength at all. He felt restless, and tossed and turned at night, dreaming vivid dreams that he could never remember. This morning, he thought he might have remembered something vaguely resembling dragons.

           He shook off his covers and nearly tore the switch off his alarm, trying to shut off the irking beeps. His head pounded, like deafening drums, threatening to explode his skull. Still, he dutifully plodded down to the kitchen, where his father sat sipping coffee. The man glanced up, and then frowned at his son.

           “You look terrible,” he said. Michael waved him off dismissively. Of course he _looked_ terrible; he felt terrible. “You should have some coffee. It’ll perk you right up,” Mr. Delancy chuckled at his own pun. “There’s still some in the pot.”

           There was always some in the pot. “No thanks,” Michael replied, and poured himself a cup of milk. The creamy liquid soothed his parched mouth and throat, and he felt his headache lessen a little. That was all he needed: a smidgen of food. There was nothing more wrong with him than stress. Though, what stress was affecting him was a question he could not answer. He sighed and filled a bowl with cold cereal and more milk.  He would survive.

           So this morning passed again. At approximately a quarter of an hour past seven, he caught the bus to his school, an inane little building of tan stucco and red brick. He exited with the rest of the shuffling students into pale morning-light, diffused by ominous gray clouds and a trifle bit of rain. The human looked up to the sky, thinking he might catch a bolt of lightning. Only dark skies greeted him, and his headache returned sharply.

* * *

            Isaac Marx greeted his friends warmly on the cold day. It was oddly chilly for September, even though fall was right around the corner. He felt charged, though—tingly even, as if a bolt of stray lightning were about to strike. Around every corner, possibilities waited, adventures poised on the brink of happening.

           He, too, had grown up in the little town. He found it charming in its own way, and the summer festivals that proceeded the new school year were a wonderful treat before diving back into textbooks and algebra. Not that he was not curious about the possibilities of leading a life away from his home, but he had never saw the need beyond going off to university the next year. Then he might have an adventure or two. But that was still a year off, and his mind was on more immediate matters.

           Twelve o’clock had finally come around, bringing with it the solidarity of lunch. The commons were composed of a square block of building surrounded by windows on one side and an outer courtyard with a few stray benches and tables. Two more walls consisted of a lowered pit filled with lockers and an a la carte style lunch, with the remaining side opened as a series of double doors that led to the lobby and faculty offices. The inside bustled with students milling about tables and trying not to run into anyone.

            Normally Isaac would have found his group by now, and would be chatting companionably with them about whatever various and strangely random topic they picked. He grabbed his lunch quickly and turned just in time to avoid having it thrown back in his face in a collision. He sighed in relief. That had been close.

            It looked as if his friends had decided to meet somewhere other than the commons for lunch. That was typical, though. Many students decided to eat off campus. Maybe that was a good thing, he supposed. He still had the nagging feeling that something extraordinary was about to take place--like a train was about to come through and he was going to be under it.

          He looked about for his companions one last time and spied instead the hunched over form of another student, intently trying to block out the world about him. How strange, he thought, recognizing the student. Michael Delancy was his name. They shared a few classes, but did not know each other beyond that. Michael was an athletic type, though he never went out for any of the teams. And he was reasonably intelligent, as far as Isaac was concerned, and the boy had a few friends of his own. So why was he alone, and why did it look as if he were in excruciating pain?

           He tapped Michael’s shoulder. “Are you alright?”

           Michael gritted his teeth, trying not to scream at the merest touch. When the bell had rung for lunch, he had managed to tumble into a seat near the door to the commons. It had taken all his concentration to will himself not pass out from the pain. As soon as he had exited his algebra class, his whole body had begun to burn and his vision swam.

           “It burns…” he said softly, turning his eyes to the table again. He tried to sit up straight, and put his hands on the table. Even that simple movement made him recoil in pain. He stared at his hands for a moment, wondering if he was hallucinating.

           Isaac found himself looking on in shock as well, as Michael’s hands had turned a deep shade of red. Suddenly the teenager doubled over, squeezing his eyes shut and gasping for air. Michael fell out of the chair then, screaming incoherently. By now everyone in the commons had become aware of the uncharacteristic screeching breaking the monotony of an otherwise average day.

            The rash on his hands had grown now to encompass his bare forearms, as well as his face and neck. But as Isaac continued to watch, he grew more and more horrified as claws began protruding out of his fingers and his face began to reshape itself into a short, boxy muzzle. He had heard of spontaneous combustion, freak drownings without any water, and even the hyper sensitivity that Michael seemed to be experiencing.

            But this had him mystified. The students had congregated around the transforming teenager, gawking as his screams turned from unintelligible, but still human sounds, to garbled, disjointed growls. His clothes tore as his body changed more uniformly now, but still unbearably painful. He could see fear in Michael’s now opened eyes, and hear it in his voice; it reflected in the crowd around him. Isaac looked on, fearful not for himself, but for whatever was happening to his classmate.

            “It brrrnghssss...” Michael growled. His tail twitched and he clenched his fists, feeling for the first time claws unsheathing. The room spun around him, hundreds of faces twisted in horror, whispering to one another, as if he were some sort of monster. Slowly it coalesced into a more solid form. Hundreds of faces became merely dozens, and gradually the burning subsided.

* * *

 

             No one had seen him approach. The dozens of humans had their attentions focused solely on the Enemy’s offspring--the creature that had so casually taken on the Digital World’s beloved hero and turned his form into a cruel parody. All of the Digital World’s surveillance had also been focused on this puny excuse for a Digimon, all to pinpoint his location on Earth. All for the one chance to destroy it before he could do _anyone_ any harm.

            Cotramon growled under his breath. He crouched in the shadows, ready to pounce as soon as he could. He may only have been a rookie Digimon, but he was more than a match for someone with only seconds of experience. He had heard the gibberish emitted by the Enemy’s clone, the horrible noise it made. For a moment he had reconsidered his commission. Sheer strength might overwhelm him.

            Then common sense broke through the confusion, and his sense of duty reasserted itself. Of course Cotramon would fight, and win. He had fought in the Liberation War, had been at the siege of Anshar. He had been witness to wanton destruction and genocide. And he could not--would not--let it happen again.

            Ah ha! The moment had presented itself at last. The cluster of humans had parted, and the demon child was in clear view of him, trying to rise to his feat. No doubt he would attack as soon as he steadied himself. Cotramon charged forward, claws bared. “ _Blazing Fire!”_ A black jet of flame arched from his muzzle, leaping for the newly transformed Digimon.

            The stream of flame hit its mark, searing Michael and renewing the burning sensation he had just overcame. The other humans jumped back, startled and then, upon seeing the green, reptilian Digimon, fled in full-blown panic. Michael screamed again, dropping to one knee, gasping as he caught sight of the dark green form of his opponent.

            Cotramon stood to his full height, still a head shorter than Michael. He was a muscular Digimon, with a compact frame that belied his real strength. His tail lashed angrily behind him as he stared with dark, menacing eyes at his foe.

            “You!” he shouted, pointing a single claw toward Michael. “Stand and fight me. The son of the Black Diamond will not deprive me of my honor.” His jaw snapped shut, emphasized with a spark of black flame.

            Isaac watched the exchange intently, wondering what this bizarre creature wanted with his classmate. Michael had always been odd, never working well in teams. He was the go-it-alone sort--the kind that looked out the window for better days ahead, daydreaming instead of having his mind on the present. But he had always been _human_.

            The student tried to make sense of what was going on. A monster, a dragon even, had appeared out of nowhere to terrorize his school. But that was not quite right. He was intently set on fighting Michael. But now, instead of a human opponent, this other creature faced a red-scaled wiry form with fiery red eyes. He stood on two legs, just as the other did, hunched over slightly on three-toed claws, using a trunk-like tail for balance.

            But there were still some obviously human qualities about him. Thankfully, for Isaac had a sneaking suspicion that Michael was unaware how badly damaged his clothing was, enough rags still held tightly enough to him to prevent modesty from becoming an issue.

            Michael was not, in fact, aware of anything. He struggled to make sense of his situation. The past few days he had felt exhausted and fatigued, like something was sapping all his energy. This morning, he was running on empty, and only just managed to stay awake in his morning classes.

            Then all hell had broken loose. All he remembered was a burning, agonizing feeling, radiating from his stomach, spreading across his entire body. He had felt dizzy, and fell, blacking out until he saw one of his classmates--he could not quite place the name--standing over him, worried for some reason.

            He had tried to rise to his feet, but a sudden lance of flame had scorched his hands again. The source, and he looked in horror, was a monster, glaring daggers at him. Stand and fight, it had said. Fight! Michael took a step back. He was no fighter. Sure he was fit enough to be trouble if he ever did start something, but he never _did_ start anything.

            “I don’t want to fight...” he said weakly, unable to produce any more than a bare whisper. He watched the other teenagers flee, terrified of the oncoming wrath. He wanted to run with them, get away. This monster was out for _him_ and he had not a clue why. “I don’t want to fight!” he said more loudly.

            Cotramon took a step forward, seeing his enemy back away. He could sense the fear in him. “You lie!” Ha! As if such petty tricks would work on him. Cotramon had been trained for years for this task. He was unique, a gift from the Digimon Emperor himself. Only he had won the honor of destroying this child before he could digivolve. “You and your father will die,” he said resolutely.

            His father? Michael suddenly glimpsed his father, a fair skinned man with a mop of graying hair, sweeping sawdust off the floor at the mill. What did _he_ have to do with anything? “What are you talking about? Leave my family out of this!” He shook the thought from his head, trying not to think of this creature attacking his parents.

            “Don’t feign ignorance with me,” the green Digimon retorted. He knew better. And now he was close enough. “Your _family_ is responsible for the wholesale destruction of my world! _Phantom Claw!_ ” He leapt for Michael, swiping with dark arcs of energy from his claws.

            Michael rolled out of the way, watching the table behind him splinter and its metal base melt into slag. How did he do that? What kind of monster was this? He watched as the one remaining human also managed to dive out of the way. Why had he not run yet? “Run!” he beckoned, waving Isaac away. “Get out of here!” and he gestured to the burning remnants of the table.

            “You will fight me!” Cotramon roared, gearing up for another leaping strike. “ _Phantom Claw!_ ” He hurled himself at Michael, backed against the wall. This was it, the finishing blow. All of the warnings and training he endured had made this seem like it would be a fight for his life. But so far, the enemy had not even attempted to fight back.

            “ _Dynamight Rush!_ ” Michael sprang from his position and twisted in the air, bringing down the full force of his muscular tail onto Cotramon’s unprotected face. There was a deafening sound, like a peal of thunder, which knocked away the remaining furnishings and sent the opposing Digimon flying.

            What was that? he wondered, landing on his feet. The windows at the farm end of the room overlooking the courtyard had shattered, and the monster that had attacked him was picking himself up out of a heap of debris. Isaac--that was his name--stared at him incredulously, not believing what he had seen either.

            What _was_ that! How had he leapt so high? It had been out of instinct. Had he done nothing, Michael would have been rent apart. “What do you want with me? What have I done?” He saw the monster glance at him, then charge forward, throwing another jet of flame his way. He dived to the left, toward the back of the commons and careened into the lunch cart.

            Isaac got to his feet and tested his ankle. It was not sprained, and he thanked his maker for it. He could still walk, and from the sight of the ensuing battle, he might need to run. He heard MIchael shout to him to get away, and then heard lightning strike. It sent him flying into the locker pit and he skidded to a stop at the end of one row.

            How could he leave though? Michael was outclassed--this he could tell from the rapid movements of his adversary. The other monster charged Michael again, who dodged again, only to find himself face first in a pot of corn chowder. He was a loner, but never had Isaac seen him pick a fight. He was the peaceable type.

            Isaac was the same way, although much more extroverted. He had rarely fought with anyone, let alone a monster. But he had to do something. He could see flames licking at the other’s muzzle, ready to spew yet more black fire. Suddenly Isaac made up his mind, grabbing the nearest object to him.

            He took the chair and launched himself at the charging dragon, interposing himself between the two opponents and bringing his makeshift weapon down hard across the dragon’s skull. There was a deafening crack as the chair split in two the dragon stumbled and fell forward, sputtering and spitting blood.

            “What the devil is wrong with you?” Isaac demanded.

            Cotramon turned to look at the human and wiped the blood from his mouth. What was wrong with him? This interloper just stopped him from saving the world. “I’m doing my duty, human. Don’t interfere again.”

            “Duty?” Isaac scoffed. He looked at Michael, his transformed body burned and bruised, covered in soiled food. “He doesn’t want to fight you! He said so himself.” He tried to save Isaac--tried to convince him to run. Now the human was glad he stayed. “He’s never done anything to warrant that kind of attack.”

            It was all a trick. Cotramon knew it--he had to convince this human, otherwise the collateral damage would be too great. Even for him. “He’s not human. You can see that. He’s an abomination... the son of the most reviled enemy of my kind! We fought to seal him away forever and now _this--_ ” and he spat the word with as much venom as possible--“is threatening to destroy my world again!”

            “Look at him, though,” Isaac pleaded. He knew nothing about ancient enemies and wars fought long ago--at least nothing about otherworldly wars. “He’s a daydreamer, not a fighter. He’s never lifted his hand against anyone, except in self-defense at this very moment.”

            Michael had managed to collect himself once again. He was cut badly across his arm and his body ached terribly from the force of the collision. But he understood the conversation. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t even know what you--what _I_ \--am! I don’t want to fight.” He pulled a strand of stray noodle from behind his head.

            He limped forward. His legs also sported long gashes, though they were not deep. He looked pathetic, and Cotramon could not dispute that. The Digimon shook his head. Of course this was a trick--it had to be. The Enemy was cunning, so it would be with his offspring. The human still stood in his way, though. And he still wielded a large fragment of that chair.

            Was it possible, he wondered. Could the hybrid be telling the truth? He certainly doesn’t fight like a Digimon, Cotramon thought to himself. And its confusion seemed genuine. The Enemy had never known what happened to his machine. The clone-works lay dormant for years, collecting dust and its fair share of bugs. And _he_ , the Digimon cast a sidelong glance at Michael, did not attack, even though he would have had the advantage.

            Cotramon had never been a true soldier. In fact, he had been in the medical corps during the war. He had made life and death decisions for wounded fighters, he could do it now. He was intelligent, wise for his age--or so the Emperor had told him. Now that he stopped to think, nothing here made any sense at all.

            The glaring human held tightly to his weapon, poised to strike if the Digimon so much as twitched. He stood between the two, a life saver by the very definition of the word. Michael had been fatigued, worn down--and had just come out of what Isaac would guess was the most traumatic experience of the young man’s life.

            “Look at him,” the human directed. “ _Look_ at him. He’s helpless. He doesn’t know up from down right now and you’re ready to murder him.” The monster looked, his storming, furious eyes abating. Isaac sighed in relief: it looked as if he was reaching him. He did not know the circumstances, nor did he even really know Michael--only what he had observed in passing.

            He was unremarkable, quiet, and definitely not the son of anyone’s enemy. This could pass as a misunderstanding, he decided. The monster looked at him now, then the piece of hard plastic he held. Isaac dropped the remnant chair and offered his hand. “I’m Isaac Marx. That’s Michael Delancy. And, for the most part, we’re humans.”

            Cotramon took the offer, seeing the fight was over. How was he going to explain this one? Not only had he failed in his objective, but he now had serious misgivings about the information he had been given. The Emperor might understand. But at the advisory of his council, he might still act rashly. And then there was the fact that he had been bested by a human.

            As he stood and dusted shattered tile and dust from his scales, he introduced himself. “I am Cotramon, clan Koromon. I am a Digimon.” Isaac’s back was turned to him, helping the one known as Michael to an upright chair. He hardly paid attention, as he was inspecting the various cuts over the other’s body.

            “Is that what I am?” Michael asked, looking over Isaac’s shoulder, wincing.

            Cotramon came toward them, pulling a small box from a pouch on his belt, which had remarkably remained intact. “Move over,” he said, nudging Isaac out of the way. “I’m trained in medicine.” Out of the box he pulled clean bandages and disinfectant and began to apply it liberally over each gash. “And yes, sort of. We are digital monsters from another world.”

            “Digital?” Isaac remarked. “As in computer data?”

            “Only partially,” the Digimon as he tied a bandage taut. “Our biology feeds off the electromagnetic radiation from your computer networks.” He pulled another bandage from his pouch and tended to the wound on Michael’s arm. “You,” and he looked directly into Michael’s fiery eyes, “are... unique.” He finished with the bandage.

            Michael’s ears twitched. The sound of sirens in the distance, headed their way. The ruckus they caused had undoubtedly terrified residents in the surrounding homes. And with students and faculty running in panic from the scene, babbling on about monsters fighting, he could only surmise that the sirens were that of police cruisers.

            Cotramon heard it as well, attention suddenly focused on something Isaac could not comprehend. He hastily stuffed his first aid kit back into the pouch at his side and took Michael by the arm and dragged him away. He cut through the hedges that surrounded the courtyard, grumbling at the two wayward humans to move quietly.

            “Where are you taking us,” Isaac whispered.

            “I don’t know,” he answered. This was not the way he came in. The Digital Gate was at a fixed point, but they would have to cross the entire town to get there. He knew the layout and whereabouts well enough by now. He had stalked his target for some time before the opportunity to strike had presented itself.

            “We’ll have to lay low until I can get him to the Digital Gate,” he informed the two, pausing at the other side of the hedge. He poked his head out tentatively, looking from left to right. The streets were crowded with people investigating the cacophony generated by their brief battle. The sirens approached in earnest now, and even the human heard them clearly.

            Stealth was not Cotramon’s primary skill either. His compact form made it easy for him to go unnoticed, but as for moving silently or hiding, his bulk was in his girth. He was built for strength, for fighting, not for sneaking around and trickery. And trying to do so in broad daylight with a second Digimon _and_ a human in tow would not help matters. He retreated into the bushes.

            “We can go to my place,” Isaac said, catching a glimpse of a police cruiser parking. It would have to do. His parents would not be back until late. The two could wait until nightfall to sneak back to wherever it was they were going. And it would give Cotramon proper time for an explanation. He turned, motioning for them to follow. Cotramon nodded, seeing it was opposite the crowd. He still held Michael tightly by the arm and dragged him through the brush.


	2. Of Monsters and Mayhem

           He still felt dazed and confused, like he were living in a dream. Michael let himself be pulled along without protest by the “Digimon.” Cotramon was his attacker’s name. Now he felt like a prisoner, and that strange Digimon was his armed guard. He acted like it too, casting wary glances at Michael every few minutes. His host, Isaac Marx, who had dived in at the last moment to save his life, offered him the use of his facilities to clean up properly after their brawl. Michael accepted readily, glad to get away from his warden.

           He felt strange, unfamiliar, even, looking at himself in the mirror. He saw some of the same features, distorted and malformed now. His square jaw had been projected into a boxy muzzle and his hair had turned into a white mane. As a human, he had had eyes a shade of green that people found disconcerting. Now they were a bright, sparkling red, matching the newly formed scales that covered his body. He dried himself, wincing as the towel moved roughly over his bandaged cuts.

           That fight… _Dynamite Rush_ … the thought sent a thrill of energy through him. It was as if he had known how to do that his entire life, but never had the opportunity. He had always wondered about other worlds—where they were and what they might be like. An only child, his parents had catered to his interests without much thought. Fantasy, science fiction, anything that offered an escape from a world he hardly fit into.

           The cloths provided to him by Isaac were a loose fit. Isaac was taller by a few inches, and larger around the chest and middle. Not to say the teen was overweight—just big. He had the build of someone who worked hard and heavy for a living. In contrast, Michael was leaner and shorter, possessed of strength that he rarely ever used.

           Until now...

          He stuffed his legs into the jeans. Claws now, instead of hands—he had claws. He unsheathed them and tore a hole in the back of the pants. Strange, he thought, that he should use them so naturally. It unnerved him. He was supposed to be human. He _was_ human! Martha and Eugene Delancy had raised him from birth. This was an experiment of some sort. A cruel joke. If he had been like this his whole life, how come no one knew but that _Digimon_?

           He shoved his tail through the hole and then stuffed himself into an ill-fitting vest, growling. Growling? He was growling! No! He stopped himself, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. He had to get his bearings. He was human.

           Michael moaned in despair. He _was_ human. He felt it in the core of his being. He had felt the changes coming for days. His vision had fluctuated, and his attention wandered constantly. Then there was the utter lack of energy. He slept poorly at night, dreaming of visions of otherworldly creatures, some of them—now that began to recollect—looked strikingly similar to himself.

           What about his family though? This Cotramon was going to take him back to the Digital World without even the allowance of saying good-bye to his parents. And that was the best scenario he could hope for? Cotramon had tried to kill him initially. Would other Digimon try to do the same? Would he be tried and executed for something he did not do?

           Cotramon seemed rational, now that he had taken a second look at Michael. He only hoped that the other Digimon would be less inclement and more reasonable to outside explanations. Then again, he might have been on the extreme end of the spectrum. All that talk about duty and honor made him sound like a fanatic.

           “He’s not fully Digimon, sir,” Cotramon said into a fist-sized device. Only he understood the garbled reply. Their language, grunts and growls and hisses, was as ancient as the Digital World. “And he refused to fight back…” he paused. “No! Of course I followed the mission parameters. He refused to fight me.”

           The radio remained silent for a moment and then an angry series of growls startled him. “I’m bringing him back to the Digital World. Boreamon should decide what to do with him.” And he shut off with that, wishing that he had more sense and less temper. He could very well have killed the hybrid—someone who was completely unaware as to his past. He could not fault Michael for that. The boy had not even known what a Digimon was until today.

           Not everyone on the Emperor’s advisory council had approved of _him_ going after the hybrid. The Sovereign Council was made up of nine extremely powerful Digimon, and they were as wise as they were strong. Some, however, were not as easy to convince as others that he had been the right Digimon for the job.

           Many months of hard work and effort had gone into making the decision. The Sovereignty wanted to test not only the physical prowess of participants, but also the mental acuity and the wisdom of each individual. In the end, he had won out, and received his prize. Not only was it the chance to do justice for his world and avenge the billions of lives lost to the Enemy, but it was a chance to use the Enemy’s own machines against him.

           After the war ended, the Sovereignty had become the ruling body of the Digital World, until an heir to the Empire was found. They confiscated much of what remained of the Black Diamond’s weapons and technology, including his most infamous machine: the Clone-Works. His top scientific advisor, Millenniumon had designed it as a means to create vast numbers of super-Digimon soldiers, without souls or conscious awareness.

           They would only take orders from the Enemy. And what an enemy he was… Cotramon shuddered. Ruthless, diabolical, and ingenious, he was also evil to the core. The combination made him deadly and cunning, and so reviled that even his real name became lost to legend. He was a level beyond mega as well, impossibly strong. Not even the Sovereignty could destroy him. They could only banish him, and hope that the seal that kept him locked away would hold.

           In the end, after they had dealt with him, the Sovereignty had ordered a full study of the Clone-Works. They found it had used the Enemy’s genetic code as a template, or so Cotramon had been told. Rather than use it, they put it under lock and key, until the Emperor came to power. Then he ordered it refurbished and put to use, using the genetic templates of the ten strongest Digimon they could find.

            It backfired though. The templates fused with the Enemy’s code and the machine malfunctioned. Somehow, it distorted reality enough to spew the genetic mishmash into the human world where it bonded with the human Michael Delancy. That was speculation, though. The Sovereignty and the Emperor had assumed that that was the intention of the machine. They thought the resulting creature would recognize its purpose immediately and move inexorably to that end. And anything remotely connected to the Black Diamond had to be destroyed immediately.

           Now that he looked back on it, he wondered why they thought that. The machine had obviously intended to make a full-blooded Digimon, not a hybrid. Could this Michael even digivolve if he needed to? Not that the boy was weak. Quite the contrary, Cotramon thought, remembering the hit he had taken.

           How could he have made such a mistake, though? He still did not like the idea of the Enemy’s offspring running around. A Digimon with that kind of power, and no loyalties to either the Empire or the Enemy could be dangerous. He sighed once. Michael had been out of sight for a while hour now, and it made him anxious. How long did it take for a human to wash up, he wondered, ringing his hands. Though, he decided in retrospect, he had done a number on him.

           He relaxed a bit and slumped down into a chair, Isaac staring at him from across the room. The Digimon wondered briefly how long he had been lost in thought, and how long that Isaac had been watching him. _That_ human had given him a good thumping as well. He rubbed a sore spot on the top of his head, remembering with astounding clarity the righteous indignation with which he had spoken.

           “The Sovereignty wishes to test him,” he stated. Isaac nodded, only half understanding. “They are the primary advisory council to our Emperor, who also wishes to see the… I mean Michael.” He had to remind himself that Michael was not, in fact, his enemy… at least as far as he knew.

           “I gathered they weren’t happy at the outcome,” the human said. The conversation had been unintelligible to him, but the gesticulation on Cotramon’s part had clued him in to the nature of it. The Digimon had sagged into the recliner, not bothering to examine the sandwich he had been offered. “You look like you could use someone to talk to.”

           How could a human understand the problem? He cocked an eye-ridge at Isaac and snorted somewhat contemptuously at the notion. The internal politics of the Digital World far surpassed anything a human could know, especially one of such young age. Cotramon had had to learn the politics the hard way, playing to one authority to sow discord among others. He was not exactly an old hat either, though, and had only been engaged in the sordid pastime for a few years. But sometimes he still felt as if he carried an unpleasant stink about him.

           He did not feel like explaining. “Your interference in our affairs has put a mark on you as well, Isaac,” the Digimon remarked. “In addition to Michael, they want an explanation from you. It has been _requested_ —” he emphasized the word with a roll of his eyes—“that I bring you back to the Digital World with us.”

           Interference? In “our” affairs, he had said. Isaac clinched his fists. After he had busted up the school cafeteria, nearly incinerated one of his classmates and then all but ordered him to follow him to another dimension, he had the gall to blame Isaac for his problem? Maybe he should have kept that chair handy. It looked as if Isaac might need it again, if only to beat some sense into his guest.

           “Listen,” and he leaned forward, glaring. “Your problem was caused by you not stopping to think before you attacked, not by me stepping in.” He was an idealist at heart, and it had prompted him to action. “As for an explanation: I don’t have to justify myself to you or your emperor. In fact, I’d say you owe _us_ a pretty darned good explanation.”

            “Correction: I would say he owes _me_ a pretty damned good explanation.” In point of fact, both of them could stand to justify themselves in his opinion. Michael had finished dressing and ambled out to the living room, catching the last snippets of conversation. He wore a solemn expression, reminiscent of one resigned to his fate. “Thanks for the clothes, by the way.” He nodded to Isaac. “I hope you don’t want them back…” and he gestured to the hole where his tail stuck through.

           The human nodded his assent. “It’s okay.”

           He stumbled once on his way to the sofa on the opposite side of the room, and then took a seat a space over from Isaac, draping his caudal appendage over the arm. He was not used to the weight throwing off his balance. Cotramon stared at him, a little less warily than he had been. Michael was thankful for that. The last thing he needed was a _monster_ thinking he was weird.

           The three of them sat in awkward silence for several minutes, none of them wanting to ask the obvious question of Why. What sort of rationale had any of them? Despite Cotramon’s initial protestations of duty, honor and the saving of his race from ultimate destruction, he had no justification. And even he now had misgivings on that point. Michael was right. He did owe at him at least that much, however dubious his rationale had been.

           “You look like someone I once knew,” the Digimon said at length. “A great warrior. He was called Pyromon, and he saved many lives before he died. No one knew what you would look like until you transformed.”

           Pyromon? Fire-monster, Michael reasoned, looking down at his hands again. The soft diamond-shaped scales felt as supple as his old skin had been. They took on a lighter coloration around his chest and on the palms of his hands—er… claws, he decided. It was better to call them what they were.

           “When the Emperor came to power, it was after an explosion in one of our cities,” the Digimon continued. “The Enemy—or as some call him, the Black Diamond—claimed responsibility for the destruction. We had fought for years to liberate ourselves from him, and when we did, we sealed him away in a world all his own, as pitch black as he was. Before that, he had devised a plan to clone himself.”

           He launched into the lesson, a brief historical recounting of the Clone-Works and its intended purpose, and the Emperor’s repurposed vision of it. “We wanted someone who could stand up and fight him if we needed. But the machine malfunctioned, and the result was a half-clone using both genetic templates. You’re the result.”

           Michael studied the Digimon in earnest. His head sagged and his eyes were downcast. He seemed to genuinely regret the events of that afternoon. “So you thought, because I’m his ‘clone,’ I would be like him?” Cotramon nodded. “Did you ever stop to consider that Pyromon’s DNA and the genes I got from my human parents would play a part in my disposition?”

           “More than that, what about his upbringing?” Isaac interjected.

           The half-Digimon glanced at him and smiled wanly. It was a good point. His parents, while average, nevertheless had raised him well enough. Michael never considered himself to be morally superior to anyone. Virtue was never his strong suit, and he was not above some vices either. But he still tried to live by what he considered to be good values. And it was not that he was a true pacifist—he just never saw the point of expending the effort.

            He was supposed to be some sort of super-soldier, though. Michael certainly did not feel super—he was no warrior. He had no martial skills. Maybe, if he put his mind to it, he could fight, but that was unlikely. He was merely an average human being. Maybe that was part of the problem; maybe it was because he was not, in actuality, human that caused him to be merely ordinary?

           “No one stopped to consider that,” Cotramon said uneasily. “No one… But instead of the weapon we were hoping for, we got you. And it made them scared. Imagine someone as powerful as the Enemy, with no loyalties at all. A loose cannon.” Here he looked up at the other two. “Digimon do not scare easily. They thought their mistake might come back to haunt them, so I was sent to correct that mistake.”

           So there it was. He was a mistake. Michael had never felt quite right at home, or around his peers. He had a few friends, but no one especially close. How could he explain this feeling of unease he got around others? It was not nervousness, so to speak, but a general misgiving that there was something fundamentally different about him.

           Now he knew what it was.

           He was a Digimon, or at least half-Digimon: a fluke. He wondered if the Digimon would treat him as such? Certainly this Emperor and his council would not be inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt. Then again, what example would he be if he did not give them the same courtesy? He had to see it from their point of view.

 

* * *

 

            “He’s bringing it back?” A four-legged form sat on his haunches before the tele-screen. Azulongmon had thrown open the communications networks immediately after speaking to their agent in the Human World. The dragon fumed over the screen, ready to challenge anyone who disagreed. Baihumon considered letting the matter lie, then sighed.

            “We chose Cotramon because he proved to be the most insightful candidate,” he said, drawing assents from several of the other council members. It had been a close decision, though. Out of the nine of them, three had voted against sending that particular Digimon. They had wanted someone stronger, brasher, which would leave no trace of the hybrid.

            Azulongmon glared at him through narrow eyes, his digi-orbs glowing intensely with immutable rage. “ _We_ did not. As I recall, VictoryGreymon, Rosemon and myself objected very sternly, and with good reason, to that decision. The Emperor sided with you out of caution.”

            Ebonwumon nodded one of his heads, then opened the other head’s mouth and spoke. “No one sought to undermine your opinion. We agreed to vote on the matter, and bring our recommendation to Boreamon based on the outcome.”

            In any case, Baihumon thought, dragging out this conference would not help the matter any. The fact of the matter was that Cotramon was, indeed, bringing this hybrid back with him. And the human who interfered also warranted investigation. “I propose a hearing,” he said at length, drawing the attention of two arguing parties. “The three of them will appear before the council, and we will determine then what the next course of action will be.”

            “One more objection then?” MetalSeadramon asked as Azulongmon began to protest. “We will send armed escorts to the Digital Gate to meet them. I will choose from among the Imperial Guard the finest warriors.”

            That was only prudent, Baihumon decided. “If anything should go wrong, the hybrid will not get far. Will that be enough to satisfy you, Azulongmon? Or shall we cage him like a wild animal?” Much to his annoyance, the serpentine Digimon looked to be considering it. “Shall I remind you that you are bound to our laws, and that he is presumed innocent until otherwise found guilty?”

            “I am well aware of the law,” Azulongmon snapped. “So be it then.” His corner of the screen faded to black, and the others did afterwards, one by one until the entire tele-screen was blank. The exchange left him uneasy. Azulongmon and his cohorts could cause trouble. Even by leaking the information, he could cause mass riots.

            For his part, Baihumon was curious of the stranger. He had sided with caution, deciding that the best way to avert any problem was to remove it as quickly as possible. On that point, he and Azulongmon had agreed whole-heartedly. But he had chosen to send a Digimon who possessed a creative mind, which would gather the relevant information before making a decision. The problem in question would be removed. But how it would be dealt with had been the issue to discuss. Now that things were proceeding so quickly, he was glad of his decision. His vote had been vindicated.

            The Enemy would be upon them soon. All of them knew it. But while some looked at strangers with hostility, as more enemies, he had thought to look at potential allies instead. If this hybrid was not, in fact, a monster like his father, then perhaps he could be persuaded to join the Empire’s cause? He felt a twinge of hope.

            He could not speak for the council though. Not until they had confirmed or debunked his theories. So he would have to bide his time, and wait for Cotramon and the other two. A human and a half-human, and a Digimon… perchance that was a portent in itself? He hoped so.


	3. Through the Digi-Gate

            The past few hours had gone on in silence, until Isaac had decided to turn on the television. The local news had broken the story of measured destruction at an area high school earlier that day. “Around the noon hour, students were just beginning to enjoy their lunch,” the broadcaster said, eyes solemn, “when an unexpected explosion rocked the building. Police say it was likely a gas explosion.”

            The three looked at each other, then back to the broadcast, which had switched to a prerecorded tape. A blond-haired reporter in a light yellow jacket held a microphone tightly while police were busy cordoning off the area. Cherry lights flashed, alternating with the blue that marked police cruisers, lending an urgent feel to the tape, and a light rain had begun to fall. “As you can see behind me, the building is in fair shape, but police aren’t taking any chances. Until a fire-marshal can inspect the building, it’s being closed to everyone.

            “Reports have come in of two missing teenagers, but no names have been released to us yet. Students are also going on about strange sightings of monsters fighting each other, claiming that as the cause of the destruction.” The tape ended and the screen flitted back to the broadcaster, who turned to face the camera.

            “It’s likely that a toxic buildup of gas created a mass hallucination, experts say.” The anchorman shuffled some papers in front of him dramatically. “They also say the explosion could have been much worse. The two missing students have still not been identified yet, but our thoughts go out to the families of the missing,” he said, finishing his report. Then, as if nothing at all had happened, he smiled and his eyes lit up, moving on to a happier story.

            Isaac switched of the television at that point. “You’re both hallucinations,” he grinned, trying to inject some humor into an otherwise awkward silence. No one laughed. “At least you’re not going to be hunted down,” he said to Cotramon. “If they don’t believe you exist, they won’t be looking for you if you return from the Digital World.”

            “When we return,” he corrected. He looked out the window and saw that it was sufficiently dark to move about freely. His dark colored scales would blend in nicely with the underbrush and shrubs that lined many of the residential areas. Michael might be more of a problem, and he was unused to having a tail, though with practice he had achieved a modicum of proficiency at moving upright.

            “Right…” the human trailed off. He wondered if he should tell his parents. They would undoubtedly worry about him if he were gone too long. And if he decided to leave them a message, what excuse could he come up with on such short notice? Staying the weekend at a friend’s place? No, he decided. “How long do you suppose we’ll be gone? I have to tell my parents something.”

            And speaking of that, what would Michael say to his parents? Did they know he was half-Digimon? Doubtful, he thought. He looked over at the hybrid, who was currently lost in the same train of thought as he. He had to tell them something. The mention of two students disappearing on the News was bad enough. But when their parents discovered _them_ missing, it would send them headlong into panic.

            Michael looked down at his feet. He did not want to see his parents—not like this. Not when he was a monster. He wanted to look at them through human eyes. But Isaac was right. He did need to tell them something; though lying to them was not high on his to-do list. He would also need his own clothes. Isaac was kind to let him borrow a pair of pants, but he did not relish the thought of wearing the saggy jeans any longer than he had to.

            That was not to mention his tail, which had become stiff with lack of movement. He noticed Cotramon shift positions several times, swishing his tail about lazily. He thought he would do the same and stood up, letting it hang loosely out the back of his pants before it began moving—and he thought strangely—of its own accord.

            “I’ll have to go home, too,” he said. The others looked at him questioningly. “If only to gather some personal belongings. I have the feeling that I might not be back for a long time…” He felt certain of that. His parents were of the conservative lot, not inclined to take change well, let alone change of such a drastic nature. And besides that, he was barely recognizable as his old self. How would he prove his identity?

            He, of course, knew his social security number by heart—but anyone persistent enough could glean that information from somewhere. He had childhood memories to fall back on as well, like Christmas on the coast with his extended family. Choppy seas and the drive out to the beach front to gaze up at the familiar sight of the lighthouse. He relished the thought and a faint smile parted his draconic muzzle.

            Then he sighed, forcing himself back to reality. That was all wishful thinking—hoping that they would somehow recognize their son after such a dramatic and violent transformation. It would only serve to pass his trauma of the past day to them, continuing a cycle of pain that no one but him should have to endure. No, he decided. He would bear it alone.

            “I’ll deal with it,” he said quietly, not caring if the others heard him. This was his alone to do. They knew he had always had his heart set on seeing the world. Would it be too great a shock to them if he were to run away? In retrospect, he had, after it was all said and done, wanted an adventure.

            Isaac nodded, catching the note of resolute determination the hybrid’s voice. He was leaving his life behind, and everything he knew. All of a sudden he saw Michael in a new light. How come he had not taken the time to know his fellow better? The two of them could easily have been friends. Perhaps it was not too late, though. Isaac was sharing in this escapade.

            For that matter, Cotramon had been thrust into these shenanigans as well. Of course, he had brought it upon the two of them initially, with an ill-conceived notion of good versus evil. But beyond that, he was a very agreeable person, if a little terse. He seemed not much older than Isaac or Michael, maybe about twenty or thirty years of age.

            But he had the insight of experiences that neither of them could comprehend. He had been to war, had trained as a field medic, and now as an assassin. Isaac studied him carefully. He was a complex mix of youthful vitality and aged cynicism. He wondered if the volatile mix would cause problems later. That would have to wait though. Cotramon looked anxious to get underway, and he did not want to set tempers flaring. “What should I pack then? How long will we be gone?”

            “Pack some of these… crude… vestments,” the Digimon told him, picking at the sleeve of his shirt. “And whatever personal items you think you might need.” Michael—he had already begun to think of the hybrid as Michael now—looked contemplatively out the window. “We might be gone for a while.”

            The hybrid nodded, and as Isaac scooted off to go pack an overnight bag, he followed, wishing to speak to Isaac alone. The human seemed surprised to see him standing in the doorway, eyes, for once, not downcast. Isaac turned to him. The last vestiges of his transformation had come into being while they waited. Disconcertingly long eyeteeth protruded from his upper jaw, glistening white and in stark contrast to his scarlet colored hide.

            “I wanted to ask you something,” he said, his voice having taken on a rougher quality. It had been bothering him. The two had not known each other well, and had shared only a few core classes in school. But he had been watching and listening to him, and had begun to see a little of the man’s true quality.

            “Shoot,” Isaac replied, pulling a small duffel bag from under his bed.

            “Why did you help me? You don’t know me, you couldn’t have known what was going to happen,” Michael said, not really expecting an answer. “You could have been killed. And if you want my honest opinion, you were way too smug about this whole thing… inviting us to your house, offering a sandwich to _him_.” Michael narrowed his eyes.

            He had seen this coming, the inevitable question. Isaac had no ready answer to give—only that he had had a sense of something important about to happen. He had been glancing over his shoulder all that morning, waiting for something to leap out of the shadows. He had merely been ready for the opportunity.

            “It just happened,” he replied, shrugging. “Call it an intuition of spirit,” he suggested, pulling open the top drawer of his dresser and grabbing a threesome of folded shirts. What, he wondered, was appropriate to wear when meeting a Digimon emperor or his corresponding high council? Red or green? He sighed, throwing both of them into the bag.

            Digimon… “Digital monsters,” and he looked at Michael, who looked as if he had not been satisfied by Isaac’s vague answer. Living creatures, living in an artificial world: it had to be an amazing twist of fate that created them. “How do you…” he stopped mid-sentence. “I honestly don’t know. My dad once told me that a true test of courage comes when only when you have the choice: the choice to do nothing or the choice to make a difference.”

            His mind momentarily flashed back to the helpless, semi-conscious form in the commons. Why should he not have stepped in? He was a gentle soul, or at least that was what people told him. But he had hit Cotramon _hard!_ Why? It was not bravery, or even pity that had driven him. Perhaps it was an unconscious desire to get involved with _something_.

            “I really don’t have an answer.”

            This was getting him nowhere, and quickly, Michael decided. He completely entered the little room and sat down on the bed. It was, at first glance, a remarkably ordinary room. Posters hung from the walls, depicting various movies, television franchises and other teen-aged icons, overlaying white paint. A computer desk and its accompanying equipment sat against one wall, compact disks strewn about haphazardly and dirty cloths piled in the swivel chair in front of it all. In all, it was not so dissimilar from his home.

            How could he be so casual? He was going to another world, surrounded by monsters; and it was not very likely that they would ever come back. Pack for a week, you’re about to be executed, he thought dismally. If he could, he would have stopped Isaac from going at all, if only to make sure he did not have to leave his life behind.

            “You’re acting like this is just a day trip to the city!” Michael growled, unable to stand his companion’s nonchalant behavior. Isaac turned from folding a pair of jeans and glared at him. “This isn’t some tourist destination—not a cruise, not a bus tour—this is real. It isn’t some fantasy adventure where no one gets hurt.” He emphasized his point by pointed a clawed finger at one of the bandages on his arm.

            “Look at me… Does this,” he pointed to himself, pounding once on his chest, “look like a game to you? It isn’t to me. This… this hurts. It’s painful. More than just the physical, but now I can’t even go tell my parents goodbye. And now _we_ are being hauled off to see a pack of monsters that sent _him_ to kill me in the first place. How do we know they won’t finish the job?”

            “I trust Cotramon,” Isaac replied, dutifully continuing the task at hand. “He won’t let anything happen.” Seeing the look on the hybrid’s face, he clarified. “Think of it this way. Cotramon risked life and limb in an attempt to thwart what he thought was an evil conspiracy against his people. Not only did he brave the unknown to save their lives, but he also had presence of mind enough to _listen_ when he realized his mistake.”

            And that was the key. Despite their obvious differences, and the Digimon’s tendency toward contempt for the humans, he listened. If, as he claimed, his superiors were wise and just creatures, then they would also listen to reason. And who else was going to testify as to what happened? Isaac had been the only one present and clear-minded.

            “I know it isn’t a game, too,” he said, laying a hand on Michael’s shoulder, looking earnestly into his eyes. “But what if he doesn’t go back? They might send someone else who might be willing to go farther than him to kill you. Someone else might have destroyed the school, students and all. Or he may even go so far as to wipe out the town. We need to go so that this can be resolved without violence.”

            He understood that, but wondered if the Digimon would be as enlightened as the human currently jaunting off to meet them. A faint smile tugged at the edge of Michael’s scaly lips. Isaac was a much wiser man than he. He would make a great diplomat if he ever had the chance. Of course, and now he could not help but grin, he was acting as the emissary of the Human Race. There was certainly much more to him than Michael had previously known.

            “I’ll take your word for it,” he told the human.

            Isaac zipped his duffle shut and nodded, eyes glimmering. Fate, divine providence, or destiny—whatever one wanted to call it—had chosen him and Michael for this sojourn into the unknown. “We’re off then.” And quickly as well; sundown was almost at hand.

 

* * *

 

             Not yet, as it turned out. Cotramon had not wanted to take any chances in being seen, and took the most circuitous route he could manage in the drizzling, cold night. Isaac had had the good sense to “borrow” a few old coats from his parent’s closet, sighting that they would need to be warm. Cotramon refused, however, as his hide could protect him better than any human contrived garments. Michael initially refused as well, but one step outside into the freezing mud changed his mind and he gladly accepted the additional protection.

            He was not as hearty as Cotramon, apparently.

            The course, though twisting and turning on every side street and dark alley—most of them only dimly lit by far-off floodlights, did bring them manageably close to Michael’s residence—or his former residence, he thought sardonically. They stopped there momentarily. The two story building was dark except for a light in an upstairs window.

            “Oh god,” he said, alarmed by the realization that his family was not only home, but in all probability waiting for him to return. He stopped short of the fence line, and the worn cement walk, fingering his house keys. He almost cursed Isaac for retrieving them from his battered clothing.

            Eventually they would find out what happened, be it through rumors or television broadcast, or even Isaac. He shuddered. He could not bear to open that door, even for just the tiniest fraction of a second. Suddenly, a hand gripped his shoulder, then another hand gripped his other shoulder. He turned to his right, recognizing Isaac in the dimly lit night. To his left, the glistening blue eyes of the Digimon looked back at him.

            “You don’t have to go in,” they both said in unison. “You’re still getting used to being a Digimon—er—half anyway,” Cotramon continued, almost compassionately, as if he knew something of the sort transformation. “You don’t have to be brave yet. That’ll come in time. For right now, just focus on getting through the present.”

            It was that advice, more than the stiff grip the Digimon had on him, that helped him decide. They would go on, and he would avoid the problem until he could set things right within himself. How could he hope to persuade his family of his identity while he was not sure of it himself anymore? Michael had pinned his hopes on the vague notion that maybe, just maybe, he could find answers in the Digital World.

            He made his decision public, and asked Cotramon, very gravely, to lead on. From there, the reptilian Digimon did not take any more winding, sneaking paths through hedges and back alleys. It was only a five block march to the Digital Gate, which they made in silence.

            “I don’t see anything,” Isaac said, incredulously.

            Michael gawked at him in disbelief. How could he not see _that?_ It was huge, a vortex of swirling, opalescent fog, opening massively before them. It seemed to generate its own sort of luminescence, a pale sort of violet color, much darker at the center than at its amorphous fringes. It reminded him of a tunnel in the sky, like something depicted of an out-of-body experience.

            “Your eyes don’t register the ultraviolet radiation,” Cotramon informed Isaac. “You’ll see it once we cross over.” He glanced at the hybrid, knowingly. He saw it. His eyes had changed along with the rest of him. He was seeing something that no other human could, or would ever see. And even as he stared for a moment, he had to admit, it _was_ breathtaking.

            Isaac only saw dark buildings, a few trees, and some automobiles silhouetted against a dark, overcast sky. Then, Cotramon stepped forward into the darkness and flickered out of existence. Michael went next, wonderment registering on his face. Suddenly he remembered the Digimon’s words: “You don’t have to be brave yet…” Yes, he did. He breathed deep and shouldered his duffle more comfortably. Then he stepped forward.

            Suddenly he was enveloped by churning, misty tendrils of fog, and a scorching heat washed over him, parching him instantly. He closed his eyes, protecting himself from the searing temperatures, and then found himself much cooler, and a little damp. He opened his eyes. The three of them stood, in undeniable daylight, though it was still diluted by fog. The others looked patiently at him, and then started forward again. He followed, not wanting to lose sight of them in the thick soup. Then, as if someone had turned on a light, the fog lifted.


	4. Armored Escort

            Fog, much to the surprise of both Michael and Isaac, was not as otherworldly as television made it seem. There were no shadows moving about them as they had expected, and no dark looming shapes lingered just at the edge of their visions. Only a gray, heavy curtain of damp hung over them as they entered the Digital World. A few moments later, as they edged their way forward into this new frontier, the fog lifted, and all three of them stood for a moment blinking in the unexpected sunlight.

            For the most part, at least to the two newcomers, it looked very much like Earth. A pale blue sky greeted them with a white sun and wispy vapors looping around it like halos. Ahead of them, all was sand and rocks, far as the horizon, save for a cluster of lighter material, shimmering brightly in the heat-distorted air.

            The two of them might have taken it for a mirage, had Cotramon not told them they would find hospitality there. “March!” he had ordered, advising them to shed their rain gear. This they did, now beginning to feel the heat of a desert sun pounding them. Then they began plodding through the course sand.

            It was not at all as Isaac had expected. The idea of another world filled with creatures like Michael and Cotramon had conjured images of unending fields of odd plants, set about in haphazardly under a strange sky. Odd sights framing even more peculiar creatures lingered in his mind, even as they grew closer to that collection of bright shapes, which he now took to be a city. In all, Isaac found it very anticlimactic for such a journey.

            “That’s merely an outpost,” Cotramon explained, as they drew near. But even he had to admit that the outpost had grown to be much more than that. In the old days, after the war and before the Emperor had ascended to the throne, it had been only a scientific research station, monitoring the Human World for signs of intelligence.

            Many such sights were scattered across the borders of the Digital World. All of them were stationed at weak points between the worlds, like weigh-stations for travelers. Not that traveling was even allowed—except for specific purposes such as his. And each point corresponded to a different point in the Human World. It had taken years to evaluate where each gate lead, and then to systematically whittle down the options of where the hybrid—Michael, Cotramon corrected himself—would be found. “We study you humans from there. It’s an observation post,” he said.

            Michael found it difficult to believe, with a wall that large and a gate that huge. It was, indeed, a city by any terrestrial standards. The walls loomed high, fifty feet or more, from the desert sands below, and an equally massive gate barred entry. He wondered briefly why it had to be so large, and then it opened, at the behest of their Digimon guide.

            The reason, and here he found he could not contain his startled amazement, was because of the sheer size that Digimon could reach. Two large dinosaur-like beasts, pushing at enormous handles situated on the inside of each door, pressed outward with all their might. The orange and blue striped monsters easily rose to a height of twenty feet or more, and their girth was equal to a large freight shipment. Each of them, and their great horned helmets, greeted Cotramon and the others with a loud growling welcome as soon as the portal was open.

            Isaac tried to reply to the best of his ability in the same roaring language as the giants. To his chagrin, he only managed to produce a gurgling, weak answer that elicited a deep rumbling laughter from them. So humans could not speak “growlish.” He tried again in English, hoping to at least begin on peaceable terms with them. “I’m sorry I can’t speak your language,” he said to them, raising his voice. “But, if that was a welcome,”—and, even though they growled, their tone was inviting enough to be taken as such—“thank you.”

            One of them peered down with great brown eyes and dropped his jaw, much like a human smile. “It is fine, small one,” it said in strangely accented English. “We study the human languages here as well, should we ever come into contact with your people. We are Greymon.”

            Both of them were Greymon? He had stopped now, in the midst of a train of thought. “Then how do you distinguish between you? When someone calls ‘Greymon, come here!’ how do you know which of you he means?” The two hulking figures looked at each other and then back down to Isaac. “Don’t you have names,” he asked.

            One of them nodded. “Our names are in our own tongue, though, unpronounceable by you, apparently.” He told him his name, a small sequence of grunting noises with various articulations. It seemed to Isaac the auditory equivalent to a string uncut gems, almost musical in quality. Then the monster told him his cohort’s name. That was a two-set noise, like lulling sound followed by a crack of thunder.

            He told them as such. “You are very perceptive, small one,” the thunderous one said. “Our names are given at birth by parents for a particular quality we display, or as a blessing of things to come. I was born in the mountains after a fierce windstorm. My brother,” he indicated the other Greymon, “was born, and our father’s father presented the family with a hand-cut gem. So he was named.”

            And Cotramon, then, was not _his_ real name. So what was it? That got him set to thinking about his companions, and he realized with abrupt clarity that they had left him behind. Hastily he wished the two Digimon a good day and ran off, catching up with them just as they reached a central square, filled with even more Digimon milling about—some of them larger than even the two Greymon at the gates.

* * *

             The Enemy looked over a detailed map of Anshar and its capital city. He knew it was outdated, just as his master did. Millenniumon stood by silently, apprehensively awaiting any word his master gave. Silence, though he had appreciated it during the war, had begun to dig into him in a way that bode very badly. It was when his master sat in silent contemplation that he was most prone to outbursts.

            Perhaps “outburst” was the wrong word. They had been locked away on this accursed plane for years, and patience was wearing thin. His master had a desire so deep-set within him to rule and conquer, it had become an obsession. And it had happened far before they had crossed paths. But the years of solitude since the war had given him time to plot.

            The seal holding them there—he, his master, and Apocalymon, who led the military arm of his master’s triumvirate—had begun to fail. The fires from Musplshiem had seeped in and made the dark, storm-churned climate warm. And even now, as the seal continued to crumble, his master began rebuilding his army.

            Those foolish Digimon that had locked him away—they called themselves the Sovereignty—had given the Enemy an entire world and its resources to work with. The arrogance of them, who thought they could stay his power indefinitely, had also sealed his vast, soulless armies away with them. Now he had built his army to ten times what it was during the war. And Millenniumon, though not entirely sure of the prospect, had helped him.

            How many Digimon had he killed? At first it had been for the need to experiment, as many of the initial tests he had run were on volunteers who thought his master was, indeed, worthy of recognition. Soon, though, the coup had succeeded, and once established, the Enemy had redefined himself. And the volunteers soon turned into conscripted soldiers.

            And from there, because of him, they became mindless shells of their former selves. He could no longer remember the promises that the Enemy had made him, only that for the longest time, he could think of no better reason than the pursuit of his passion. He had even been given the whole of Ea and its teaming underwater cities, to play with. He was a Lord unto himself, and over everything in the water and on the land.

            He shifted slightly, making no noise. For his size and bulk, and for the machinery that plagued his body, it was a feat not to be taken lightly. In his service to the Enemy, he had sacrificed much of his body. Now he survived on internal mechanisms and prosthetics that he had engineered hastily as his internal organs shut down.

            Because of this, he was not as strong, nor as quick as his counterpart, the Destroyer of Worlds. Apocalymon was just what his namesake evoked: a terror, able to snatch up enemies far and abroad with his long, winding limbs, without having to move a single pace. He had been known to level cities and villages via bombardment. For him, it was the thrill of destruction that drove him onward. And his form, suitably corrupted by their master’s influence, was an instrument to that end.

            Millenniumon’s strength was in his mind, and what he could produce. Not a warrior, but a thinker, he had fashioned many of his master’s ideas into reality. That was what brought them to their current predicament. One such idea, he had thought it destroyed, had yet survived, and had been studied by the Digimon above them in the higher planes.

            “What do you suppose such a union of bloodlines will produce,” the Enemy queried him, turning his dark gaze ominously upon him. Millenniumon almost shuddered. His master’s calm voice was not to be trusted. He was a Digimon of immense power, unmatched anywhere in the Digital World. And though he was cruel, even to such as Millenniumon, he was also cunning and efficient. And he did not take failure lightly.

            He must choose his words carefully, as he already treaded upon thin ice. Even now, and he continued the analogy in his mind, he could hear the tinkling, cracking of his path before it would give way and shatter. “Pyromon had a power, that, in time, might have rivaled yours,” he said, deciding truth was the best course of action. “And because he is a product of the Clone-Works, he is tied to your blood as well. Your son, though he may appear weak, has the potential to destroy us all if left to his own devices.”

            The Enemy turned back to his study of Anshar before replying. “I concur. I have already sent an agent to assess the situation.” Then he remained in silence for several more minutes, with only the shuffling of folded maps breaking the menacing silence that now pervaded the chamber. Then, with a start of surprise, Millenniumon heard the words for his dismissal.

            Inwardly, he sighed in relief.

* * *

             Michael stood motionless as the black-clad form introduced himself. He was smaller than many of the other Digimon that passed them by, taking scant notice of the trio. But he still rose to a height head and shoulders above the hybrid. He, like many of the Digimon, who he had seen, was reptilian in nature and vaguely draconic as well, with scales as black as pitch and black armor gleaming in the midday sun.

            He introduced himself first in the native tongue, a curt, meaty sounding grunt by Isaac’s ear. Then he introduced himself again in gruff English: “I am,” and he pronounced his name again. “His majesty, the Emperor Boreamon, bids you welcome.” He bowed to them, his horned helmet nearly touching the ground at their feet.

            “They sent you?” Cotramon asked, incredulously. He hardly believed that the affair was worthy of a personal escort—let alone that their escort might be one of the Emperor’s own guard. He raised himself back up, the seal on his chest armor glimmering neatly. He was indeed a Guard. “Who’s idea was this?”

            The figure, whom Isaac and Michael were later able to identify as a BlackWarGreymon, answered, “Baihumon requested a special detail for you on behalf of the Sovereignty.” He grinned under his helmet, startling Cotramon by breaking the decorum the Imperial Guard was known for. “Whether it is to protect them,” and he pointed to the others, “or to protect us, I do not know. In any case, I will be your escort while you are here.”

            Cotramon nodded at the unorthodox Digimon as he turned to inspect Michael and the human. He examined Isaac carefully. “What is your name, small one? Or shall I make one up for you?”

            “Isaac Marx,” he replied, not the least intimidated. It had been the second time a Digimon had called him “Small One.” He held out his hand to the burly Digimon in the age-old human gesture. The BlackWarGreymon took it thoughtfully, and gave it one good shake, rattling Isaac’s comparatively frail form. “What shall I call you then?”

            His yellow eyes brightened and he smiled widely, showing disconcertingly long fangs. “Ah! You _are_ perceptive!” he laughed, his voice a deep rumble. He stood to his full height again, towering over the three of them. “My native tongue translates my name to ‘Tank’ in yours,” he said. Isaac nodded.

            “That’s an appropriate name if ever I heard one,” Michael chimed. This Tank was easily the largest creature he had seen—even the two sentries he had passed on the way in seemed small in comparison. This guy had _presence!_ “I’m Michael,” he introduced himself. “Michael Delancy.”

            “Ah, yes!” said the Digimon. “I have heard of you, the hybrid and son of the Enemy…” Michael blinked, startled. He thought he had caught a glimmer of something in those yellow eyes—something he did not like, nor could he place his finger on just what it was. In the next moment, it was gone, replaced by strangely youthful mirth. “You have the form a recognizable hero in our world. He saved many lives in the war, not least among them your partner’s.”

            His partner? The BlackWarGreymon had nodded, ever so slightly, to Cotramon. He had noticed as well and humphed at the reference. Obviously Michael had missed something there—an inference of some deeper connection. He, unlike his fully-human companion, was not nearly as insightful. But still, the green Digimon was beginning to grow on him.

            Cotramon had at least been sympathetic—at least after he had calmed down properly. The Digimon made sure during their trek to the Digital Gate that he knew some of the history. That, and what he had gathered from the snippets of conversation he had overheard, the Digimon was in earnest trying to rectify a profoundly difficult situation. It, among other things, included his sincere apology to Michael as well.

            “Yes, then,” Cotramon said suddenly, cutting off Tank’s rabbit-trail discussion with Isaac on the various naming customs of both worlds. “We were to be met with transportation,” he said, looking around. He saw no Digimon on the airfield and wondered if they had been forgotten, and then dismissed the thought.

            He pointed to it. There, coming into land on a small airstrip was a large silvery shape that had the distinct look of an aircraft. On closer inspection, however, they saw it was actually a creature, probably another of the incredibly varied Digimon, and that the metallic gleam was a sort of harness attached to its underside for passengers. It was at least the size of a small airliner.

            “Indeed,” Tank said emphatically, cutting short their amazement. “The Sovereignty will be expecting you when you arrive. They want you debriefed as soon as possible,” he said to Cotramon. Then, turning to the others, he spoke casually. “They’re very interested in you two as well, but after a long journey such as this, they thought it better to give you a chance to rest. It’s only a few hours by air.”

            The flying Digimon came to rest on its four legs, and was attended to by a ground crew offering it food and drink. He would be ready to fly again shortly, one of the ground crew explained to them. Digimon of this nature often flew passengers from city to city and plane to plane using harnesses or other such devices.

            “I suppose it’s cheaper than jet fuel,” Isaac quipped. He must have been a charter, though, as there were no passengers disembarking. He must also have been on a tight schedule, as he scarfed down the platter that was brought him, and took a long drought from an appropriately sized trough.

            Moment by moment, this world was getting more and more strange. He had expected as much. But it was a different sort of strange, Isaac supposed. Instead of monsters and bugbears, he found monsters that were perfectly suited to their surroundings. It made them appear normal—or as normal as he could grasp in an alien world. The hulking figures of Greymon and others were not out of place at all.

            Mentally he chided himself. Of course they were normal. This was their world. His mental image had been of creatures that size trying not to step on houses or cars, taking mincing, short steps on narrow streets. But the broad avenues he observed now, and the immense architecture of their dwellings—the doors alone would suffice to admit a school bus—were nothing like the cities of Earth. He almost laughed as he explained his revelation to Michael, who set to wonder where he would fit in.

            He was one of those creatures, walking down a wide thoroughfare, but small as a human. Then again, Cotramon was much the same size, as were a great many of the Digimon that went by. He had the sense, though, that a large portion of them would end up at least the size of their escort, Tank.

            He would resolve to ask Cotramon about that later. He had he inexplicable sense that there was far more to Digimon than just what he saw. It was some sort of expectation, deep set inside him that he needed to _change_ somehow. He had just become aware of it, meeting the BlackWarGreymon and the two sentries at the gate.

            But it frightened him as well. He had done enough _changing_ for one lifetime. Again he found himself looking down at his hands—symbols of the spectacular transformation he had gone through. Was there more to come? In one sense, he hoped not. The last time had been agonizingly painful, an experience unmatched in his life.

            Then again, when he thought about the prospect of elevating himself to the next level, a thrill of excitement coursed through him. He felt the nervousness of someone about to take a leap of faith, where the risk, though great, was nothing compared to the reward. He needed only step out of his preconceived boundaries and remember that he was not, in fact, human.

            Someone shook him back to his senses. It was Cotramon, who rapped him on the head once. “It’s time to go,” the Digimon said, gesturing to their transportation. Then, noticing the doubtful, and anxious expression on Michael’s muzzle, leaned in close. “If you want to talk, I’m here. I’m not an expert on what’s happened to you, but I can listen.”

            “That…” he sighed heavily, “would be great.”

_Fin_


	5. Trial by Stone

            “You mean to digivolve?”

            The lounge-like passenger compartment was large enough to hold their group several times over, leaving Michael and Cotramon room for a private conversation. Cotramon had taken a seat in an oversized, padded chair across a table from Michael. Their surroundings were built for Digimon of much larger sizes, and the BlackWarGreymon, Tank, sat across from Isaac on the other end of the compartment, comfortably, drumming his claws on a table.

            Cotramon looked out a window at the passing landscape below, and then back to Michael. The hybrid had asked a strange question, that he was not quite sure how to answer. Certainly he meant digivolution. It was only natural for a Digimon to want to become stronger—that was their nature, their most basic instinct to fight. Of course, they had learned to control that urge long ago. Gladiatorial combat was a favorite pastime of Digimon everywhere, allowing them to fight without harm.

            Now, instead of conquering each other, it was sport and training. The war had been different though. Digimon had battled each other, and the soulless minions the Enemy had created. Desperation, fear, and sheer force of will had brought out potent digivolutions.

            “It’s a process of gaining strength,” Cotramon continued, distractedly. “Since we’re digital matter, we can grow and change. Digivolution is the primary way of doing that.” He had not thought Michael would be able to do it though. He was only half Digimon, not a full blooded digital monster. But the awakening of that compulsion raised doubts within him. What would he digivolve into? There was never any way to tell. “You ask because you feel the need inside you, don’t you?”

            Michael nodded. “I’m not sure I want to. I think I’ve changed enough.” But still… the thrill, the excitement. He had felt Tank’s presence, as if the man had an energy about him that filled any space he occupied. Michael could almost believe the Digimon was invincible. “Why does Tank feel so much stronger than anyone else?”

            “He does have that feeling, doesn’t he?” They both threw a sidelong glance at him, discussing something animatedly with Isaac. The two got along very well, he thought. “He’s a mega Digimon. That’s why. Digimon are born from eggs into their ‘fresh’ forms. From there they digivolve to in-training Digimon, then to rookie, where you and I are.”

            Michael screwed his face up into something that looked contemplative. “There’s other levels, too, right? Like something between where we are and what _he_ is.” The gap was just too large, he decided. So much power and strength emanating from him had to take years of training. “What about the Sovereignty? Are they mega Digimon as well?”

            He was a quick study, this Michael; more so than he gave himself credit for. He had already pieced together the archaic hierarchy of the Digital World. Generally, higher level Digimon were revered for the hard work and dedication they put into their training. They also tended to be much wiser than other Digimon. “Yes, to both questions,” he said. “First of all, there are two levels between us and them. Champion and ultimate Digimon are a good match for anyone. But the Sovereignty were the first to digivolve during the Liberation War against the Enemy. They led us, and they now advise the Emperor, as he respects their wisdom as much as everyone else.”

            “I see…”

            Champion and ultimate? The classifications sounded almost cartoonish. But Cotramon looked so serious, speaking about it. He had a good mind to forget the whole affair. “I don’t like the idea. Look what sort of trouble I caused the last time.” Still, he was curious. The Digimon spoke of this evolution almost as if it were a tangible joy.

            If Tank were any clue, not all Digimon that powerful were giants. Some undoubtedly were. He imagined, from the unconscious inclination of Cotramon’s head when he spoke of them, that the Sovereign Digimon were true giants, towering over anything he had yet seen. Then he wondered what their _presence_ would feel like, and he shuddered at the thought. He felt a certain twinge of doubt at their supposed wisdom. After all, beings that fought and conquered to gain strength had to be trouble.

            He let his mind wander for the remainder of the trip, trying not to focus on the trouble brewing in the back of his mind. Michael had never been one to trust his guts, but he had a nagging suspicion that something was about to happen to him—as if he were about to be subjected to a critical test, which his life depended upon. Maybe it did.

* * *

           The transport landed only a few hours later, setting down in a large bowl-shaped impression in the center of a massive city. Even from the air, the two newcomers were awed by the fact that it stretched as far as their eyes could see. Nearly from horizon to horizon, over an area of several hundred square miles, the city of Anshar sprawled beneath them, its denizens going about their lives oblivious to the gaping mouths of their two newest visitors.

            Aside from the enormous area the metropolis encompassed, the buildings themselves were equally gargantuan, much like those they had seen at the so-called weigh-station at the borders of the Digital World. Now, at least, they knew why Cotramon had called it merely an outpost. For, as they now saw, it was nothing in comparison to this place. Curved, domed roofs covered nearly every piece of the otherwise boxy architecture, all of them as large as a city block. Some—a very few of them—were smaller, comprised of shops and open-air markets where giant Digimon mingled with smaller creatures, still comparable to small pieces of industrial machinery.

            Cotramon coughed purposefully, drawing their attention to a vast, wide boulevard down the center leading to a cluster of skyscrapers about a mile distant from their landing field. Surrounding it was a wall, circular, encompassing all of the grounds within, and a large central complex divided into five separate wings. Out of the center rose a pillar with a domed observation deck at its peak.

            “That is the Imperial residence,” he said. “And it is also our destination.” He sighed. It had been a while since he had seen Anshar Proper, or the palace. Not since the Emperor had met with him personally, and given him his blessing. The mission he had undertaken was of supreme importance to the Digital World, and now it had taken on even more importance—especially to him. Would the Sovereignty and the Emperor take him as a failure, or would they be glad of the potential ally?

            Very few knew of the real reason why the Clone Works had been studied so thoroughly, and even fewer of the reason it was activated. Only that it was, and that a call had gone out to the public for the cleverest and most powerful Digimon to be found, ever reached the outside of his little circle. It was a circle, in all honesty, that he had been lucky to have been admitted to at all. His influence there was minimal—almost non-existent, in fact. It included only him, the Sovereignty and the Emperor himself. And Cotramon, as only a messenger and assassin, was the lowest on the totem pole.

            He was to speak of it to no one, lest the word get out and panic ensue. But even the best efforts of the Sovereignty at the end of the war were not enough. Everyone knew that the Enemy had not been destroyed, but they were under the delusion that he was sealed in an inescapable prison—a little piece of the inferno, made just for him.

            Cotramon shuddered. A super soldier to fight the Enemy, and they had gotten a human hybrid that was based on _his_ genetic code. Yet there was potential in him, the Digimon knew. His very transformation proved that, harkening back to the most powerful of the Digimon he had ever seen fight. EmeraldGreymon, who had evolved from Pyromon during the war, had fought during the siege on Anshar, the city in which they now stood.

            The hybrid also came from that stock. Good stock, he decided. So the potential remained that he would be a powerful ally against the Enemy. The seal was beginning to wear thin, and soon war would be upon the Digital World once more.

            What a terrible war it had been in the first place. Decades of war had ravaged the Digital World. Entire planes had been devastated, stripped of their natural resources and laid barren. Each and every layer to the Digital World had suffered, each plane a different menagerie of disasters. And the casualties had been catastrophic—so many Digimon had been lost to the Enemy or to his generals. So many more had been deleted altogether.

            There was a shudder as the transport came to rest in the landing field. He blinked, his concentration faltering, and his train of thought long gone. Immediately, the ground crew began swarming their Digimon transportation as an announcement in a recognizable, but heavily accented English, asked them to disembark. The stairs leading from the entry hatch were, like everything else in the compartment, oversized for humans and smaller Digimon, and the three smaller passengers awkwardly made their way out, took their gaze upon the capital city.

            Cotramon was relieved to see it had not changed much since his last visit, more than a year prior. Though, in retrospect, he should not have been surprised. This was the oldest city in the Digital World, and thus, the least likely to change “overnight.” He smiled, wondering if some of his old haunts were still around, and decided he would have to look into it later. There would be time, he hoped. Maybe he would take the others with him.

            Tank bordered on giddy as he came ashore. Cotramon caught him looking around expectantly, as if he were waiting to be greeted by an even larger entourage. No one came, however, except for more of the ground crew tending to the large, winged Digimon behind them. He quickly realized that, and gave his full attention to his three charges.

            “I assume Cotramon mentioned that our destination is the palace,” he iterated, making a sweeping gesture toward the grandiose complex. “You are to be guests of the Emperor himself, an honor extended to a very select few. I recommend an air of sobriety, as the Imperial Guard take their positions very seriously.”

            Then, quite to Cotramon’s irritation, and to the surprise of the others, he pulled a list from a chink in his armor. “The following are to be abided by in all cases: There will be no unauthorized access to palace grounds. You will leave your staterooms only when summoned, or in the escort of myself or another member of the Imperial Guard. You will speak to the Sovereignty and the Emperor only when spoken to. And you will answer any and _all_ questions they ask in truth.”

            He winked, and grinned under his helmet, replacing the list. “Of course, these are merely guidelines. The Emperor is far more flexible than we lead you to believe.” The others nodded soberly, clearly intimidated by the list of mandates. “Since Cotramon is an officially recognized agent of the Empire, he qualifies as escort. And, if you like, I’ll tag along to keep things under control. We don’t often get tourists from another dimension.” His joking manner unnerved Cotramon again, forcing him one more time to wonder how such a flippant Digimon ever made the ranks of such a prestigious organization.

* * *

            Isaac had barely paid attention to Tank’s speech, only catching the gist of it. Do not stare; do not deviate from your present course. That summed it up well, he thought. And do not interrupt for anything. It only just registered in him, though, as he was completely absorbed in his surroundings. He had never seen such a place, so filled with people, so large that he could not see the end of it.

            A mile seemed only a few feet by comparison, when he asked about the distance to the palace. He was grateful for that, after seeing the sheer breadth of the city. He was advised, along with Michael, to stay close to the pack, as there were many people who would be opposed to them being there.

            “Your existence,” Cotramon explained, referring to Michael, “is not a secret, nor is your heritage. Some would even take your form, Pyromon, as an insult. That’s why the Sovereignty provided an escort. And, though our worlds haven’t officially had contact, there are Digimon who oppose making contact with Humans as well.”

            An insult? Isaac vaguely remembered something about a Pyromon being a war hero. As they walked, he asked, “Why is him being a Pyromon such an insult?” Cotramon opened his mouth and rolled his eyes, as if the answer were as obvious as daylight, then closed it and began again, nodding.

            “I forgot, you’re not from here.”

            “No, we’re not,” Michael interrupted, now curious himself as to the question of his insulting figure. He too remembered the reference to a war hero, and had a sense that it would be important later. He might even be questioned about it by the authority of the Digital World’s leadership. “So what’s the deal with it? What have I done?”

            Even now, as they left the airfield, he noticed Digimon of all sizes staring at him, some horrified. A large crowd had gathered at the entrance, word having spread somehow of the hybrid and his arrival. Many boasted signs in a language that neither Michael nor Isaac understood until Michael heard Cotramon mutter under his breath.

            “Those dolts think you can read digi-code…”

            Michael was glad for their wrong assumption. The last thing he needed was insults, or at least to understand what they meant. He, like Cotramon, rolled his eyes. Many of them shouted angrily in growling, halting English. Some had even learned a few swear words in the human parlance, and others just stood silently, glaring at Michael as he passed by them.

            The varied shapes and forms all had gleaming eyes, bright and glittering in the hot sun. The hybrid noticed a distinct presence of reptilian or dragon-like Digimon. Some looked almost human as well. He found himself staring back at them, wondering just what kind of enemy they were mistaking him for. What could have been so unspeakable and so malicious as to inspire such hatred?

            He was human anyway. They should have known that. But how could he explain to a people so unwilling to listen that he was nothing more than an average human being, just coming into adulthood. Then again, he could hardly prove that he was, in fact, human. Just look at me, he thought. He was a freak, even by sideshow standards. Not human, not a Digimon, how could he belong to either world?

            Then there was a pop, and a startled yelp issued from Isaac brought him back to the present. He looked at the human, who had stopped, next to a wall where a large chunk had been chipped out of it. Dust plumed out of the gaping hole, which he now took as a small impact crater. He stopped, and turned his red eyes to the crowd.

            “Who threw that?” he demanded, some of the Digimon taken aback. “Who threw it?” His voice had taken on its own growling quality as he shouted down the protesters. They may have had a right to protest his visitation, but not Isaac’s. “You’ve got a bone to pick, pick it with me. But leave my human out of it,” he shouted. “Now _who_ did it?”

            Cotramon and Tank had fallen in with him, surrounding Isaac. Another projectile, a small slab of stone, rocketed toward them, narrowly missing Michael and colliding with the wall. A second pop, and the sound of stone falling to the ground told him no one had been hurt. But the renewed shouts drowned out any sort of communication between them.

            “You’re all traitors,” someone bellowed from the midst of the mob. Others took up the cry, and a chorus of threats and declarations of violence against them rose up. Another stone, this time larger, rocketed out from the rabble. It too missed by a mile, but left a yawning hole where the others merely left chipped masonry.

            Michael had caught the culprit this time, and pointed a clawed finger towards the offending Digimon. “Hey!” he called, as the roughly human-shaped Digimon tried to duck into the throng of people. “Come back here you coward!” The Digimon halted his retreat and turned, brown eyes alight with rage. Michael started, briefly wondering if he should have phrased his request in a more diplomatic way.

            The man-like Digimon came forward, gripping another large rock in one hand. “You hide for years in the Human World? And then have the nerve to desecrate the memory of my city’s patron?” the Digimon questioned, his voice eerily calm. “And then you call me a coward!” He came out of the crowd fully now, green skinned and wearing a short tunic of violet fabric. His short, pointed muzzle was drawn into an angry snarl as he reached for an unreasonably large blade.

            “So you attack an innocent?” Michael shouted, deciding to stand his ground. He gestured toward Isaac, his other hand clenched into a tight fist. “What has he got to do with it? The only reason he’s here is as a witness. He’s not related to this enemy of yours!”

            He felt a righteous indignation welling inside him, burning like a furnace within him. Someone had once told him that he ought to stand up for the helpless, or at least those who chose not to fight. Isaac was a good man; he had done nothing to provoke that Digimon except by being there. He would not have hurt a soul, except in self-defense. And Michael was not even sure of that much.

            “How can you justify that?” he demanded.

            The lizard-man shot out a forked tongue in irritation and snorted contemptuously at him. “By being in league with _you_ ,” he said, lacing his words with venomous ire, “he has proven himself to be an agent of the Enemy. And as for you… you don’t deserve to set foot on our soil.” He unsheathed his blade, the metal glowing eerily in the daylight.

            Was he really going to attack, for such a dubious reason as that? The Digimon paced forward. The mob, sensing the oncoming battle backed away, more subdued by the brandishing of weapons. Michael looked back at Cotramon, who had taken a readied stance, and Tank, who stood guard between them and Isaac. He could not let this happen.

            “I don’t want to fight you. I just want to conduct my business and go home,” Michael said, trying to placate the green-skinned native. Suddenly the Digimon made his move, lightning quick, slashing at the draconic hybrid. He dropped to the street and rolled out of the way, only just catching the last remnants of shimmering heat from the furious attack. The crowd leered, snickering at his attempt to dodge.

            He rolled again, into the crowd this time. They made way, parting like water, for the Digimon who once again tried to skewer him. Michael managed to scramble to his feet and promptly fell back to the ground again, stumbling over his tail. Cotramon came from the opposite side, and made a slash at the Digimon with his claws, leaving a trail of black flames in his wake.

            His “phantom claw” attack missed, alerting the Dinohyumon to his presence. He kicked at Cotramon once, catching him in the chest and sent him staggering back. He drew a second blade, making for the rookie.

            No, Michael thought. He climbed to a standing position once more and launched himself at the attacker, sending both of them to the ground. “You don’t get it, do you?” he asked, trying to get a grip on the Digimon’s struggling hands. “This isn’t helping anything!”

            His attacker slipped one of his hands around Michael’s back and dragged him to a prone position, face to face. He dropped his swords then, opting to use closed fists, as heavy as brick, to pound him. Michael put up his arms to block the incoming punches. But the Dinohyumon was too quick, landing punch after devastating punch on his unprotected body.

            He tasted blood in his mouth, and doubled over as an especially powerful blow caught him in the gut. He felt around for the nearest object to try and defend himself. His hands clutched nothing but sand as another fist caught him under the chin. His vision turned dark for a moment and he felt disoriented. The world spun around him and now two more Digimon were attacking him, identical to the first.

            Michael grabbed at the sand and threw it into their eyes. The Digimon, startled, screamed profanities and leapt off him. The hybrid laid there, half blind. The buildings were a lot taller than he remembered, and they seemed to be swaying. He moaned, rolled over, and coughed up blood. He had to get up.

* * *

            Cotramon was already in action as he saw his companion roll over and rise wearily to his feet. Dinohymon was a champion Digimon that favored one on one competition. Alone, few Digimon of the same level could outclass him. What chance would a lowly rookie and a half-Digimon hybrid stand, then? Together, they could flank him though, if they were fast enough.

            He had tried it, and got a gut-wrenching kick in reward. Their opponent was too fast. And now he was taking aim at Michael again. There was murder in his eyes, the likes of which Cotramon had only seen a few times. “ _Blazing Fire!_ ” he shouted, unleashing his fireball at the champion level Digimon. The deep breath required made him wince—he had bruised a rib at the very least. It caused his attack to peter out before reaching the target.

            So he took a step forward and tried to appeal to the Digimon’s sense of reason. “Don’t hurt him, you’ve made your point!” Michael had gotten up by now, but his wounds from the previous night were open now, oozing more blood and staining the bandages still on his arms crimson. “Dinohyumon! He’s been summoned by the Emperor! You mustn’t hurt him!”

            He continued forward, and threw himself into a running tackle, swiping with his claws again. “ _Phantom Claw!_ ” The humanoid fighter backhanded him, swatting away the attack with little more effort than it took to swat a fly. It took slow, deliberate and menacing steps toward the hybrid. “Michael!”

* * *

            Isaac watched in horror as his hybrid companion fell to the ground, pummeled by the unforgiving rage of a zealous Digimon. He was a big man—over six feet tall, and a build that would make most humans cower if he ever chose to challenge them. But compared to a Digimon, even one as relatively small as Cotramon, who barely came up to his chest, he was nothing.

            He had only managed to stop Cotramon from delivering a killing blow by luck, leaping in at just the right time with a hard enough piece of plastic to warrant the Digimon taking a second thought to him. But what could he do now? That Digimon—Dinohyumon, Cotramon had called him—was far too quick, and much stronger. He wondered why Tank did not intervene. The Imperial Guard only watched, seemingly in fascination, as the Digimon picked up one of his swords and continued to advance toward Michael.

            He had risen to his feet completely by now, and turned defiantly toward the Digimon. “I don’t want to fight you,” he repeated to no avail. “If it’ll prove to you that I don’t want to fight, I won’t even defend myself.” He lifted his eyes, bright with fiery determination.

            They were only a few paces away from each other now, and Dinohyumon lifted his cleaver. Time slowed for the human, as he found himself running toward Michael, yet again, trying desperately to save his life. The only thought that registered in his mind was that there was something special, not yet seen, about him. And that he needed to be preserved.

            Isaac may not have been as strong as the Digimon, but he was massive enough to throw him off balance, into the watching horde of creatures. The Digimon ducked into a roll and came out, facing him. He crouched to a position that suggested he had acquired a new target. Then the reality struck him hard as the Digimon sprung at him.

* * *

            “No! Stop!” Michael shouted, diving at the champion Digimon. He would not defend himself. He would not defend Cotramon—who would not need it anyway. But Isaac… the human was defenseless, unarmed and hopelessly outmatched by the speed of their assailant. He had to do something. He had to protect him—even if it were just to repay him in kind—he had to _do_ something. _Anything_.

            He felt it again, a burning sensation all over his body, very much like what he had felt the day before. But it was different—the heat was warm, pleasant. It was insistent, though, as if it were an immediate need to be addressed. Or the addressing of an immediate need, he realized. The power he felt building in his muscles was intense—he could match Dinohymon with it. He could do something now, stop the attack.

            Then, suddenly, everything stood still, like a photograph as he heard himself shouting some incomprehensible phrase. But it was instinct—like that _dynamite rush_ he had used on Cotramon—except it was exponentially greater. _“Pyromon digivolve to…”_ He paused as the name came to him. There was a strength in it that he had never felt before—like a new part of himself. _“Helmdramon!”_

_Fin_


	6. Reservations

            His muscles tightened, twitched and relaxed, all with newfound strength. And suddenly, as a golden light enveloped him, he was taller, without the awkward clumsiness of his prior form. Even as a human he had never been as keenly balanced, and the exhilaration was as tangible as the ground he walked upon. Then, as he renamed himself, Helmdramon, Michael opened his eyes.

            Time had stood still. There he was, a foot or less from Dinohyumon—the hostile Digimon charging at Isaac, sword aglow with furious energy and ready to cleave him in two. Only seconds remained to avert the tragedy. Cotramon’s voice echoed from behind him, almost incomprehensible, distorted by some reverberated side effect from the transformation. Barely standing, the Digimon had caught the brunt of one of Dinohyumon’s devastating blows, leaving Cotramon sputtering, trying to call for help.

            Michael swung at the advancing Digimon, his fist ablaze. He felt heat, but it stubbornly refused to burn him. “ _Nova Punch!_ ” He dived forward, leaping at Dinohyumon and releasing the pent-up energy in his arm. The flames arched from his fist, roaring to life as they left a scorch mark where his attack had collided with the other Digimon’s jaw. The lizard-like Digimon spun once around from the force of the attack and then regained his balance, glaring menacingly.

            The Digimon stood motionless, eyes fixed on the new digivolution. Michael caught his breath, hoping that it would sink into the Digimon that he was not willing to fight. He motioned for Isaac to leave, and caught him nodding out of the corner of his eye. The crowd had now formed a wide circle in the avenue leading to the palace complex, giving the two champion Digimon ample quarters to duke it out.

            Cotramon stood breathing heavily to one side, Isaac next to him, trying to ease him down to a sitting position. Tank stood behind them, watching carefully—expectantly, Michael thought—to see what would happen next.

            He turned just in time to see Dinohyumon lunging at him, sword at the ready, and narrowly missed the edge. Michael whirled out of the way a second time, leaping high as the blade came back for a second bite at his legs. He flipped once in the air, forcing all his strength into the downward turn. “ _Blindside Inferno!_ ”

            The concussive force sent Dinohyumon flying through the crowd, which barely managed to take flight from the impromptu missile. The Digimon careened into the same building which he had chipped away at before with a crash and an audible crack as several of his bones broke. The sword fell from his hand and he collapsed, leaving an eerie hush in his wake.

* * *

            “Impressive…”

            The hybrid had digivolved.

            “Most impressive.”

            The report from their agent in Anshar had come in only moments ago, and Millenniumon had only had a brief moment to scan for details. He gathered the digivolution was powerful—a sure sign that he was indeed of the Master’s blood—but it had been triggered by a human of all things. It puzzled him. They knew hardly anything of the hybrid, and less of the human world. Only now had it occurred to the Master that the humans might be just as easily conquered.

            So there he brooded, the Black Diamond, his dark eyes scanning the report. Their agent had been detailed, and what once would have been a trickle of digi-code on the political climate was now three pages of comprehensive analysis on fighting technique, potential and records of any Digimon matching his description. So far, none of this came as any surprise to either the Master or Millenniumon. No one surprised them.

            “Your initial supposition was correct. The union of those two bloodlines was indeed very powerful.” The table before him contained a map, this time of Earth, the Human World. The prospects for conquest were ripe with possibilities. Their scattered governments, warring armies and their petty religious and political differences made them weak. But paired with the Digimon of the higher planes, an alliance would certainly spell disaster. “I must have him, or destroy him.”

            The Enemy turned to him, staring at him through dark eyes, almost unbearably black. They called him the Black Diamond for that reason. Millenniumon chanced a fleeting look into them and inwardly shuddered. A thousand deaths stared back, filled with bitter hatred.

            “I do not think he will side with you,” Millenniumon said, cautiously. He unconsciously took a step backward, feeling the wall against his back. He bowed deep, apologetically. The Enemy motioned for him to continue. Letting out a breath, he said, “His digivolution was triggered by a bond between him and that human interloper.”

            Yes, he thought, the one that fouled up their original plan. They would have been glad to let the Digimon destroy the hybrid—but no one had accounted for the slim chance that a human would successfully interpose himself. But it had opened up new avenues to both Millenniumon and the Digital World. A potential ally that could go either way—toward the Enemy or against him—had thrown the dynamics of the Enemy’s plotting off kilter.

            “I propose caution, Master. I would not destroy him so hastily.” Therein he pinned his hopes. He would exercise care to give as much berth to the hybrid as possible, only subtly manipulating his actions, guiding him to where they needed. “See what fate awaits him with the Sovereignty first, Master.”

            “Do you propose that you know better than I do, Millenniumon?” The Enemy stood. Suddenly the room became immensely crowded, the massive presence of his master descending like a great shadow from the sky. “Remember,” he said icily, “I see through you. I know your thoughts, your plotting and your futile hope ridding yourself of me. Nothing you do is secret to me. I allow you to continue existing only because a mind—even one as foolish as yours—is a terrible thing to waste.”

* * *

            Footsteps clattered up the corridor leading to Baihumon’s chamber. The striped Digimon sat patiently on his hindquarters, waiting for the messenger to catch his breath long enough to speak. He bore the seal of the Emperor, pinned to his chest and emblazoned with gold.

            Inwardly, Baihumon wondered what would be so important that the Emperor would send one of his personal messengers to him. Undoubtedly the others would be receiving similar communications of equal importance. It was only the contents of the message that were in question. The hybrid had arrived, he knew, along with a human witness to the exchange. He had seen to their safety personally. The Imperial Guard would assure a safe arrival to the palace.

            And yet he sensed trepidation in the messenger before him. “What news do you bring?” he asked, beckoning the rookie to speak. The Digimon bowed, as was the custom, and greeted the Sovereign. “Skip the formalities and tell me what happened.”

            “He… he digivolved,” the rookie panted. “After they landed in Anshar, they were attacked and the hybrid—he digivolved! The Emperor has summoned the Sovereign Council to Anshar to discuss the matter in person.”

            The tiger-ish Digimon sat silently, statuesque in his stillness. Then he grunted once and dismissed the messenger. “Tell the Emperor it shall be as he commands,” he said. Minutes later he sat before the communications console, the large viewing screen illustrated with the faces of the other council members.

            “This is highly irregular,” Zhuqiaomon said. He did not like traveling, nor did he like leaving his territory unprotected. The others concurred with various grunts and assents. Baihumon would typically have agreed. But the situation was very unusual in itself. “More and more covert enemies are breaking through the seal. Leaving the planes without leadership would jeopardize the integrity of the Digital World.”

            “Normally I would agree with you,” Baihumon replied. They had known the risks of tampering with the Clone Works, and it was their responsibility to deal with the consequences, good or bad. “Need I remind you, however, that the Emperor is not, in fact, requesting our presence, but commanding it?”

            “He is right,” another voice broke in. VictoryGreymon, a relative newcomer to the council, had been appointed by the Emperor himself in recognition for his personal valor. He was loyal to the Emperor—almost blindly so. “This meeting is not for debating that mandate, but for what we will advise.”

            VictoryGreymon’s eyes shifted under his helmet, looking as if he were personally staring down each council member. Many of the Sovereignty had resented his appointment, but Baihumon had to admit that the Emperor had chosen wisely. The Digimon had proven himself a stabilizing influence on a council that was often divided by petty differences of opinion. Even now, Baihumon could see him at work, subtly working his way around the Digital World’s leadership.

            “Whatever we decide,” he said, and his eyes came to rest on Baihumon, “I propose we come to a complete consent as to what we will tell the Emperor. Now is not the time for pettiness.” Several council members growled. That had been a personal jab at them—those who often took a diametrically opposed view to the Emperor.

            Azulongmon protested the loudest. “We cannot consent to something we know nothing about. We must wait to _interview_ this creature before we can come to a decision. It is the only _sensible_ course of action.” At least he had finally agreed to wait to see what the hybrid had to say. That had been a hard won victory. And many of the others agreed with him. It only made sense, the feline mega decided, and he added his approval as well.

            The debate rambled on, back and forth, for another quarter of an hour before the council reached a consensus. Despite passionate arguments from VictoryGreymon, the council would not prematurely advise the Emperor, one way or another. Were Boreamon to ask their advice before they had a chance to discuss the matter, they were each to give the same response: we must deliberate further.

            At last the screen shut off and the communications line closed. Baihumon sighed. All of the political nonsense they had had to undertake since the Liberation War ended had taken a toll on them. Where once they had been mighty generals, the Sovereignty were now a mass of squabbling children. That had been the reason why Boreamon was made the Emperor: to provide strong, central leadership. But he had insisted on the council of the Sovereignty. Inwardly, Baihumon wondered how they had ever defeated the Enemy in the first place.

            Leading an army seemed a lot simpler a task than leading a world. He had not even led an army. His role in the war had been simple. He fought, and bled, and fought some more. Of course, he remembered, he had been unique. It was with him that the war had begun, back in the mountains of Gaia, when he had only been a rookie slaving away in the Enemy’s production lines.

            He had heard legends of other worlds, of other creatures, passed down from generations that existed before the first Digimon Empire. Creatures not like them existed, and they held a power and a force within them that could make Digimon spontaneously digivolve. It intrigued him, and caused him to dream. Humans had come to the Digital World before—he knew this. He had known one of them.

            What had brought him there, Baihumon had never discovered. But the result had been the beginning of a revolution. The first time they met, Baihumon had risked everything to save his life. And the results had been nothing short of a miracle. It had caused him—like it had caused the hybrid in Anshar—to evolve.

            The mega padded around his chambers, thinking. When the full details of the battle in Anshar came through to him, he had known there was more to this hybrid than anyone of them had thought. No son of the Enemy would have risked his life for anyone. He stopped pacing, staring at a glass case in which a small device had been placed.

            To many, it would merely have been a keepsake. But to him, it represented a bond that even death could not break. His human partner had passed away long ago—it had been many years since the Liberation War. Two decades had passed, and humans, from the little he learned from his partner, were short-lived compared to the Digimon. But this device was the legacy of that partnership.

            He wondered: could it save the Digital World now?

* * *

            The walls of the palace had been immense—the sheer size of them putting to shame any of the ancient castles of human kings. Made of polished stone, they rose one hundred feet from the ground at their lowest point between bastions. The gates themselves had been made of the same sort of stone, encased in metal framework that struck the two visitors as not particularly strong. Digi-chrome, Cotramon had told them, had been used to reinforce the stonework. It was the strongest material available.

            They slid open soundlessly and effortlessly, only the hum of some great motor underneath them giving any clue as to the real weight and size of the doors. It would have taken an entire artillery battery a hundred years to break through, he thought. No huge Digimon pulled at them, like they had at the outpost on the edge of the Digital World. This was civilization, and grand elegance, the likes of which no human had ever seen.

            Inside was exactly what the two visitors expected. A large courtyard, crisscrossed with paths and gardens, fountains and statues, laid before them like a great green desert—a remarkable contrast to the true desert outside the city proper. Attached to the wall on the inside were outbuildings and dormitories, supply houses and storage. Digimon of various sizes shuffled from one to another, and guards patrolled the paths leading to the central building.

            What had appeared to be a cluster of towers at the center of the city was actually one large tower, terraced to five different levels, with the observation platform at the apex of the highest spire. Tank led them to the nearest of the five wings, great stone cliffs, rising out of the earth, twice as high as wall itself. This, the escort told them, was the guest wing.

            Two rooms had been set aside for them in the wing opposite the Emperor’s suite in the palace complex. Isaac, though, had thought the description of “room” had been a vast understatement. The hospitality of the Digimon Emperor had been nothing short of incredible. The Emperor had not been present at their arrival, but he had made provisions for them. Their escort, Tank, had been joined by three other guards, all with the same seal emblazoned on their armor.

            After seeing that all three of them had been properly examined by a physician—though Cotramon had protested he would serve well enough in that capacity—their injuries had been seen to, and now Michael’s hastily done bandages were properly washed, sterilized and dressed. Cotramon had also been seen to—he had been bruised badly, but suffered only minor damage. And Isaac had merely been made to be studied. Apparently, human anatomy had been of great interest to them.

            Then it was onto their staterooms, which had actually been comprised of several rooms apiece. Lavatories, living rooms, private balconies and bedrooms had made up an apartment that would have made the richest of earthlings jealous. All of it had been handsomely appointed with furniture and fabrics that made the human feel as if he were in a dream. All of it was on a scale much larger than he was accustomed to, however.

            Chairs that were designed for Digimon larger than Tank had been scattered about, and he had required a helping hand from the large Digimon just climb into one of the sofas. In the end, when he had mentioned the problem in passing, more Digimon came to remove them and replaced them with furniture more suitable for human proportions. Tank merely took several of the cushions and sat cross-legged whenever he felt the need.

            “Why so much extravagance?” Isaac asked him, still trying to take in the vast dimensions of the room. He had pulled himself up a chair behind the mega and sat, watching over his shoulders, as he worked away at a computer terminal. Even the various monarchies of Earth would have paled in comparison to this.

            Tank laughed once, deep and rumbling, as if the question were silly. “This palace was originally the Enemy’s. It was designed as a fortress and a palace.” It was so large though, Isaac could hardly think of what use any one person, even a Digimon, could have for such a place. “During the war, this was his central point of operation. His generals, his leading scientific minds, and a complete garrison all resided within these walls.”

            “It must have been some war…” Isaac said softly. He had seen murals and statues in the corridors on his way through. Some depicted the city—he could recognize it only from the tower, prominently displayed in the center of each painting—in total ruin. Only the dominating sight of a black structure in the distance remained. Others were much less devastated scenes. One showed a city surrounded by plains with a high wall around it, as if it were a larger version of this very palace. “Was your entire world destroyed like that,” he asked.

            Tank stopped his clicking and turned to him. “Most of it,” he said. “The two cities that faired the best were Ea Prime and Valhalla. Their locations were both of strategic importance, so the Enemy left them intact. When the rebellion swept through, the Sovereignty did the same.” He turned back to the terminal and pulled up file. A picture of a Digimon came up, along with writing in the same language as the protestors’ signs.

            “Is that your language?” the human asked. Tank nodded silently, as if concentrating. Isaac almost thought to leave him be and explore the stateroom some more. There were several more rooms yet for him to peek at, and it was attached by a shared lobby to the other suite where Cotramon and Michael had been placed.

            Still, he was curious about the black Digimon’s dealings on the screen there. It looked as if it were some sort of index of various digital monsters. “That’s precisely what it is,” Tank told him, surprised. “You have a great gift of perception, especially for a human. This is a categorized list of all the known digivolutions we have compiled. Thousands of Digimon exist in this list.”

            “What are those, then,” Isaac queried, point a finger at the lists and boxes next to the photograph. “It looks like a list of some sort. I noticed that the Digimon we’ve encountered all shouted a name before they attacked. It had something to do with their specific powers.”

            Tank smiled, nodding. “The words we speak are very powerful. It’s true of all people, even humans. In your world, they can create history and shape the future. In the Digital World, they have a direct impact on the physical world around us. That’s why Digimon have names that reflect them so perfectly—as you and I discussed earlier. When Digimon attack, they name them so because it directs the energies of the attack into a physical form.”

            Here the Digimon called up a picture of Cotramon. “I’ve been searching for Helmdramon, the evolution that Michael achieved. But so far I haven’t been able to find it. I called up Cotramon as an example, though.” Isaac saw the writing suddenly transform as Tank tapped another series of commands. Now it read in perfect English the Digimon’s name.

            “Digimon,” Tank said, “come in varieties. Because we are partially evolved from computer data in your world, we have developed distinct attributes reflecting our strengths. Virus Digimon, like myself, are robust and adaptable. Data Digimon like Cotramon are also adaptable, but have greater speed in combat. You saw that before. And vaccine Digimon are the least susceptible to corrupted data.”

            It made sense, to a point. Cotramon had mentioned that Digimon were physical manifestations of computer data, but not anything else. And he had heard snippets of his conversation on Digimon evolution. The file called him a “rookie,” and, despite the initial thought that it might be a reference to fighting ability, he guessed that was not so. Cotramon had not been a rookie by any stretch of the imagination—not if he was chosen specifically for _that_ task.

            The other boxes on the screen made much more sense. Types, attacks and elements, he gathered referred to exactly that. Cotramon was listed as a beast type, and the attacks were the same that he heard the Digimon announce during his fight with Michael. And the element listed was one of the natural elements in mythology.

            “So Digimon have a connection to the physical elements as well,” he supposed. “Their attacks, when they announce them, give form to those elements.” The more he thought about it, the more it made sense. Michael had used two that referenced fire to some degree. Both of them had a potent effect.

            Cotramon’s file returned to the cue of scrolling names. None of the rest showed any resemblance to Helmdramon. “Have you tried running a reverse search?” Isaac asked after several minutes. “Search by his attack, or by his element or by his level. Or look for unknown Digimon that fit that description.”

            Tank eyed him for a second or two, as if the idea had been novel to him. “That could work. We know he was a champion level Digimon, with two attacks.” The scrolling list stopped, and, after a two keystrokes, the language returned to digicode. Tank began typing.

* * *

            A knock on the door broke Michael’s concentration. He studied intently the mosaic patterns plastered over the walls. Intricate designs, stringed together like pearls, wreathed the washroom in bright colors. He thought he glimpsed the connection, but on a second and third look, it was lost to him again.

            As he studied, he rested in a warm bath, his strength having left him. He had returned to his previous form, Pyromon, while being examined by the Emperor’s physicians. Many of them were surprised to see his reptilian face, but they gave him no sign of hostility or fear. Michael was thankful for their professionalism. They had asked politely to take blood samples, examine his anatomy for comparison with a baseline human and Digimon counterpart. Then when they had finished, they gave him clothing, seeing that modesty was not as natural to him as full-blooded Digimon.

            The cloths fit snugly, but comfortably, and his tail, formerly confined to a small slit with fraying fabric and uncomfortable seams, swished lazily about, at ease with the rest of him. Once shown to their room, he had quickly found the washroom and taken them off to ease his tired, aching muscles into a hot soup of milky water.

            The knocking became more insistent. He moaned, feeling the sting of myriad cuts and bruises and burns he had taken. He had taken great care to wash himself this time, not with the same haste or trepidation he felt at Isaac’s home. Slowly, he rose out of the water and grabbed a towel he had set aside for himself, draping it around his midsection and tying it firmly in place.

            “Michael?” Cotramon’s baritone voice called softly. He waited for a reply. None came, and he opened the door. “Michael?” he asked again, not expecting a reply this time either. Was the hybrid still angry with him, or was he just not there? Steam rose out of the bath, obscuring the room in a thick haze. “I wanted to talk.”

            There… the Digimon breathed easier. A shape coalesced in the steam, defined itself, and became Michael. He wore the garments provided for him now. What a strange creature, the Digimon thought. Just that morning neither he nor Isaac had known anything about him. Cotramon had rarely ever kept allies close at hand, let alone true friends. He could count on his left claw how many people he had trusted in his life.

            A paltry few.

            Up until their arrival in Anshar, he would have still turned on the hybrid, given a reason. Even knowing he had to leave his family behind, Cotramon still had not been totally convinced. The contemptible idea that he would have still given over the hybrid only hours ago rankled his nerves. He had heard stories of humans performing great acts of self-sacrifice. Never had he seen it though. Many Digimon would not have done the same.

            He supposed it had much to do with the fight with Dinohyumon. The quickness of his attacks had outmatched them both. Tank should have stepped in to stop the attack, yet he knew—somehow—that Michael would evolve. He should have seen it as well. The bond forming between him and Isaac had been growing since they met. And now he could feel it forming between him and the hybrid as well.

            The trouble was, he was not sure he could handle that. Despite the growing admiration for him, and the lessening fear that he was the Enemy, Cotramon had reservations. A nagging suspicion in his mind plagued him, as if someone were hiding something. And it pointed to the hybrid in stark contrast to what he had observed. The Digimon was a slave to his own conditioning.

            “Michael?” he said louder, a growl creeping into his voice. He needed to talk, to say something. What, he did not know. But now the hybrid had turned to him, and he looked uneasy himself. The growing self-anger deflated and Cotramon let out the breath he had unconsciously been holding. “Thank you,” he said.

            “For what?” Michael looked at him quizzically.

            “For forgiving my mistake…” came the reply. “…And for stopping that attack,” he added hastily. He tried to sound commonplace, as if he were merely being polite. It sounded weak and artificial, and his bravado faltered and failed entirely. “The truth is I think the Sovereignty was wrong to send anyone after you. You aren’t the Enemy.”

            The puzzlement faded, and a twinge of anger flashed in Michael’s eyes. Of course he was no enemy. He had tried to explain that countless times to him, and he only just got the point? Then again, what would he have done in Cotramon’s place? “I told you so,” he said, feeling the heated steam draw the ire out of his voice.

            Michael had never been able to hold a grudge. At times, he felt physically incapable of it, as he had tried several times and had to give up. “It’s okay,” he decided. “I know you were just doing what you thought was right.” Anger only made people more miserable. Right now he just wanted to rest. “Just remember to tell the Sovereignty that.”

            Cotramon gave him a fleeting smile. “I’ll tell them tomorrow.”

 

_Fin_


	7. Trial By Darkness

            Michael rested easily that night. The oversized bed and thick comforters enveloped his weary body and he sighed contentedly. It had been the first time in weeks where he had not been in constant pain. He remembered the pressure and aching leading to his initial transformation—the pounding in his head had been unbearable and nothing he had tried seemed to relieve the tension. Now, while still exhausted, he realized now just how much better he felt.

            His wounds, properly dressed now, were only a dull pain in the back of his mind as he wondered about everything that had happened to him over the past twenty-four hours. Had it really only been one day? It felt like a lifetime. He had started to get used to the idea of being a Digimon. His natural equilibrium had adjusted with remarkable speed.

            Michael felt like himself again.

            He opened his eyes. The hybrid had been possessed of a keen sense of hearing as a human, and now he realized it had only gotten better as a Digimon. Something whispered outside his window, on the balcony that looked over the courtyard and the outer wall of the palace. He unwrapped himself from the blankets and tiptoed out to the balcony. Only the twinkling lights of the city and the lighted paths in the courtyard met him.

            The heat from that day had melted quickly into a cool, breezy night. He took in the fresh air happily, a nice relief from the mud, dust and sand he had been through earlier. Whether it was the fresh air, or the two companions that had now started to think of as friends, he felt better. He wondered what his family would say when he saw them again. It would be nice to go home again, he thought.

            He had often enjoyed summer nights like this, sitting out on the patio with a book and a cool drink. The boy had never had friends over, nor did he have many friends to invite over in the first place. He read his books and did his studies and kept to himself, and he had thought himself content with life.

            He had never needed much. Computers, video games and the latest techno-babble to come out of the “all-you-can-save” computer outlet store had never interested him. Pop-singers and movie-stars ran the lives of his companions in the human world (he would not have called them friends except in the loosest definition). They read the dribble in the tabloid papers; he read substance.

            A few stars twinkled above him. The light from the city prevented anything but the brightest in the sky to shine, and a waning gibbous moon hung over the palace, casting a pale peach light into the courtyard. None of it was familiar to him. No one told him what to expect, except pensive glances and hostile accusations.

            “Admiring the view,” a voice asked. Ten feet from him, on the balcony next door, loomed a menacing silhouette. A dim light in the background illuminated only the glossy edges of his armor, but Michael recognized Tank. “It’s a nice night for reflection, isn’t it?” the Digimon said.

            The hybrid breathed in relief. He had almost thought it was another Digimon trying to kill him. “You startled me,” he said, and then thought for a moment. “I was just thinking about home. After all that’s happened, I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to return.”

            The mega’s eyes flashed an acid yellow, luminescent in the watery light from below. “It’s been a long time since I have been home as well.” Michael nodded, not that he expected the Digimon to see it. He looked back to the stars, wondering if they were other planets or other dimensions, floating in an endless void. Tank looked up as well, drumming his claws on the railing next door. “Maybe you will return home,” he said.

            “How do you mean?” Michael asked, curiosity piqued by the sudden declaration. He could not possibly mean for him to go home. Life could never return to normal after this. He was branded, marked by this transformation. If the natives did not shoot him first, he would end up in a vat in some science lab.

            Tank chuckled, almost as if he sensed the hybrid’s thoughts. “No, I suppose you couldn’t ever return to that life.” He turned toward the boy and leaned onto the stone railing. “I don’t know why you would want to, when there’s a life of excitement and adventure waiting for you here. Or there, even. You could do anything you like.”

            He had always wanted to go somewhere, entertain himself, and do something exciting. But he had never gotten the chance until now. Usually he read of adventures, wondered what it would have been like to be there, and then shut his book. That was where it always ended. Now, though, maybe Tank was right?

            “Think about it,” the Digimon told him. Michael could hear a smile in his voice. It sounded edgy, almost dangerous. Had that always been there, he wondered, suddenly remembering the curious sensation he felt at their first meeting. “The human world is ripe with possibilities for an enterprising Digimon like you. Humans can be easily swayed, I think. It makes me doubt their usefulness.”

            Usefulness? What was he talking about? Humans were not chattels to be shoved around like some sort of commodity. Isaac was a good man, and he had proven himself very useful in the past day. At least to Michael. Somehow, he thought, that was how he was able to digivolve. At least one of them was his friend.

            “I don’t think so,” he replied, trying to hide his initial disgust. He made an attempt at dismissiveness, trying to turn the conversation somewhere else. “How come I never see any maps? Or if I do, they never include the other cities you mentioned—Ea, Gaia, Musplshiem… Where are they?”

            The BlackWarGreymon tilted his head, curiously at the hybrid. “They’re on other planes—dimensions of the Digital World. Each is connected to the next like a string of pearls.” He took the helmet from his head, revealing a broad, scarred muzzle in the moonlight. He had seen a lot of battles, Michael decided. “Do you suppose the humans will accept you back into their world?” he asked.

            “I don’t know,” the hybrid replied. No, he decided. Not at first. But eventually, when they realized he was the same person as always, they would take him back. And Isaac would be there to help him. Cotramon—after getting to know him—would probably be just as welcome. While not exceptionally gifted in the arts of hospitality, his family did know how to make a stranger feel welcome.

            “Of course they won’t. The Sovereignty, once they find there’s nothing wrong with you, will likely advise the Emperor that your world would make an excellent ally against the Enemy.” Now he removed his armguards, laying them gently to the side and producing no noise. His arms were scared just as badly. Michael winced, imagining suddenly what might have caused so many wounds. “They would find earthlings meaningless allies. They have no fighting capability, and their land is stripped of resources already.”

            Michael grimaced. He did not like the turn their chat had taken. “That isn’t true,” he said, almost defensively. He sighed, and tried once more to redirect their conversation. “Where did you get so many scars? I don’t mean to be rude, but they look painful.”

            Tank almost laughed. “Scars are a natural part of being a Digimon. You’ll understand that soon enough.” His chest armor came off next, revealing a loosely fitted shirt under a layer of padding. He discarded the padding also, and breathed deeply. “These came from the Liberation War. I once encountered the Enemy in personal combat.”

            “Who is he,” Michael asked. Cotramon and the protesting Digimon had all said he was the son of this enemy of theirs. His partner had told him the story, but he still found it nearly impossible to believe, but for the fact that he stood there now transformed. “Cotramon told me that I’m his son. Is it true?”

            “Yes and no,” Tank said, white teeth glinting. “He is very powerful. Some say he’s not a Digimon at all—some sort of demonic influence that crept over the Digital World and plunged our world into darkness.” Something in his eye told Michael that they were not merely legends. “I was lucky to escape with my life. I bear these scars as testament to his power.”

            Michael blanched. The BlackWarGreymon was a mega, Cotramon said. One of the most powerful citizens of the Digital World, he had not intervened in the battle with Dinohyumon for that reason. His powers might have caused serious collateral damage—and not just to the surrounding buildings. And this enemy had throttled him, leaving him barely alive. What kind of monster was he?

            What kind of monster was Michael? Suddenly he understood the hostility, the barefaced hatred that had overwhelmed him outside of the airfield. What if he were to turn out like that tyrant? If it were true, and he digivolved into something like that, he could well see disaster for both worlds. Then another thought struck him. It was not just the Enemy who had contributed to his bloodline, Cotramon said.

            “Who was Pyromon, then?” he questioned, drawing a surprised look from the dark Digimon. “Cotramon said he was some sort of war hero—something about saving lives. I never got the whole story from him. I look like him, right?”

            Tank nodded slowly. “Partially. He was a beast Digimon. Your human lineage made you a human-shaped Digimon. But the resemblance _is_ uncanny.” He smiled again. Somehow, Michael concluded, it looked as battle-scarred as the rest of him. But for reasons he could not fathom, it had a different quality to it—practiced, fake, like a veneer that had been worn to the bone. “He died preventing an attack on a field hospital. Pyromon had been dealt a serious injury and was a patient there when Apocalymon, the Destroyer of Worlds attacked.”

            Apocalymon? The Destroyer of Worlds? Was that the Enemy? “Who is Apocalymon?” he asked, glancing down at the paths below. A few Digimon scurried about, bringing supplies in from the outbuildings, preparing for the next day. “Why was he called the Destroyer of Worlds?” It sounded almost prophetic.

            “Great gods!” Tank laughed, grinning broadly. “You really don’t know any history, do you? Not from this world at least!” He slapped his knee once, chortling at Michael’s ignorance. He calmed himself after a few last deep breaths to steady himself. “Apocalymon was the Enemy’s chief tactician, and a brutal warrior. When he attacked the hospital, Pyromon took it upon himself to digivolve to his highest level to fend him off while the patients were evacuated. He was killed in the process, but never forgotten.”

            He digivolved? Another battle, in another time, apparently. Cotramon, he sensed, had been there. After all, he said he was a medic. Michael shook his head. That was why he had been so angry—almost psychotic with rage. What an insult that would have been. It seemed nothing was going right for him.

            “Cotramon is a good man too,” he said reflectively.

            “I always did have a soft spot for Pyromon,” Cotramon said from behind him. Michael turned, embarrassed. “What are you doing up? You need to sleep, Michael.” He knew the Sovereignty was going to test him. He knew it was going to be much more than just a few questions. This was going to take a physical toll on him tomorrow as well. “I heard you talking. Now what are you thinking being up at his hour?”

            “Just needed some air is all,” he answered. “Tank and I were talking…” he trailed off, turning to the other balcony. The armor and the Digimon had vanished—not even his ghostly silhouette stood in the backdrop. “He was there a minute ago.”

            Cotramon leaned out over the balcony, seeing nothing as well. “As far as I know, he’s been working on his report to the Sovereignty.” Perhaps the stress had caused him to imagine things. He had heard the hybrid talking, but no replies, as if he were talking to himself. “Having a little midnight crisis, eh?”

            He had only caught the last details of the one-sided exchange. If Michael were still unsure of himself, why not talk to him? Cotramon could help as easily as anyone else—probably better. After all, he had known Pyromon—at least in passing—being present at that hospital. The Digimon had saved him. Michael should have asked.

            “I don’t know what was going on out here, but I could tell you that story,” he said. Perhaps he was unsure of Cotramon—still. He would not blame him if it were the case. “It started a little over twenty years ago,” he started.

            “Tank told me the story,” Michael cut him off. “You were a medic, and Apocalymon came to destroy the place. Pyromon digivolved and sacrificed himself to save everyone.” The exact details were still a mystery to him, but he had the gist of it. That should have been proof enough that someone had been out there talking to him. He was tired, but far from delusional. These were not the hallucinations that Cotramon took them for.

            The Digimon assented. Yes, that had been proof enough for him. Cotramon had never disclosed the story—only mentioned it passing. So who would have been out here? Hold it—what was that? The Digimon craned his head toward the night sky. Faintly, the beating of wings reached his ears and he growled once. Michael had gone silent as well, also straining his ears to hear the belligerent, intrusive sound.

            He was a dark Digimon himself. Cotramon could see better at night because of it. And his eyes shortly picked out a black form against the deep velvet sky. Four wings and four red eyes glared back at him maliciously. “I see it,” he murmured, holding a claw up. There was a crimson flash, and suddenly half the terrace on which they stood exploded into stone shrapnel. “Devidramon…”

            “ _Crimson Claw._ ” Another flare, and this time the flourish of his claws was visible to both Digimon. Both of them dodged the attack in time to watch the rest of the veranda shatter. Cotramon was the first to regain his wits and launched a fireball. It struck the dark dragon square in the chest, leaving scorched scales. “ _Crimson Claw._ ”

            “ _Phantom Claw!_ ” he shouted once, leaping with all his strength upward, and catching the low flying attacker with his own razor-sharp points. An alarm sounded deep within the palace and a troupe of Digimon below scrambled to take up positions to combat the intruder. Tank appeared, motionless, watching once more a battle unfold. Isaac took refuge behind him.

            Devidramon swatted the attack away. He was fast. Far too fast for a Devidramon, Cotramon decided. Something was disturbingly different about him. He attacked again, sending another fireball careening into the enemy’s chest. Still it kept coming, taking aim again at the room where Michael stood.

            “Michael! Get out of the way!” He was after the hybrid… not another protesting Digimon, but an assassin. He had seen them before; they were the agents of the Enemy, their wills crushed and their minds turned to mush. They lived only in the biological sense, with no personality or minds of their own, completely under the Enemy’s control. “He’s after you!”

            The hybrid heard him, but still did not move. The Devidramon dived at him, his claws gleaming darkly. “ _Crimson Claw._ ” At the last moment, Michael leapt to one side, using the ruined arch of the doorway as a springboard and flung himself at the Digimon.

            “ _Dynamite Rush!_ ” He tucked himself into a ball and walloped Devidramon, knocking him off course and sending him crashing into the floor below. A salvo of other attacks rose from the courtyard, enveloping the dragon in burning fire. Michael sprung off the dragon’s muzzle as it crashed, landing back on the floor of their room.

            “That won’t help!” Cotramon shouted from above. “That thing doesn’t feel pain, and has no will other than to destroy you!” The guards below should have known better. The bloodied Devidramon picked itself up, mindlessly ignoring the barrage of attacks from the courtyard. Its eyes focused on Michael, the hybrid staring in shocked awe of how much damage it had sustained. “Michael!”

            “ _Crimson Claw._ ”

            “ _Phantom Claw!_ ” He dove onto its back, piercing its ebon hide. “ _Blazing Fire!_ ” Cotramon roared, pelting it with attack after attack. He gripped the monster and tore at its wings before he felt a crushing grip around his neck and his still aching ribs. How could he have been so stupid! The tail, he thought, struggling for breath. “Michael…” he gasped.

            No, not again, Michael thought. He had seen this twice already today, and now he was forced to watch it over again, as another friend faced destruction in the glare of a mindless minion of a faceless enemy. He tried to digivolve, but the same heat and exhilaration he felt before never came. He felt cold, afraid. Cotramon had stopped its attack, succeeded in distracting the monster. But now he was going to pay for it. The Digimon was indeed a good man.

            “Cotramon! You can digivolve!”

            His lungs burned and his head swam as he held on relentlessly to the black dragon. Faintly he heard Michael’s voice, calling to him. He had to protect him, somehow. If only to make up for his earlier mistakes, he had to protect the hybrid. It was his duty—he had made a promise. “ _Cotramon digivolve to…_ ” His grip tightened and he gritted his teeth as the tail around his body also increased its strain. He could not lose.

            Michael looked at him intently and let out a roar of his own, feeling the excitement and power radiating from the newly digivolved champion. His limbs were longer, and his scales had turned a deep forest shade of green. A golden mane, close cropped to his scaly head fluttered in the breeze and a quiver of arrows hung on his back.

            “ _Huntmon!_ ” Cotramon opened his eyes and realized he was no longer a rookie. He relaxed his grip, feeling himself flung to and fro by the attacking champion’s tail. He grabbed it, vice-like and heard a shriek as the first hint of pain registered in the Devidramon’s tiny mind. The hold on him slackened and he reversed their momentum, swinging the dragon into the open air. A deluge of attacks hit him at once, sending him spiraling into the ground below. Slowly, he dragged himself back to his feet, this time setting his eyes on Huntmon.

            “Fight me instead,” he said to the dragon. Devidramon launched himself forward, claws outstretched. Huntmon closed his eyes and let out a breath. “ _Shadow Game!_ ” A moment later he disappeared and the dark Digimon struck thin air. “You missed!” he shouted, pulling an arrow from his quiver. A bow formed in his hands, ebon black as the obsidian head of the missile. “ _Phantom Arrowhead!_ ” The point shone a deep violet as he drew the bow. Then he released it, sending it streaming through the night, piercing the Devidramon.

            The monster crumpled, clutching the wound in his chest, smashing into the ground. It shrieked, the last vestiges of his mind trying to grasp the sudden, painful release from the Enemy’s control. Then, to the shock of both Isaac and Michael, it disintegrated. Nothing but the rubble caused by its attack, and a faint echo of its screeching cry remained.

* * *

             The convoys had arrived late that evening, accompanying each of the Sovereignty from around the Digital World. Baihumon stepped out into the night air, weary of traveling, ready for a rest. If the journey from Valhalla were any indication, the next day would be even more taxing. His caravan had joined two others on the desert path into Anshar; that belonging to Azulongmon had been the largest. VictoryGreymon had joined them as well, with a procession of only himself and two guards.

            Humility was a quality the older council members sometimes lacked. He regretted his own choice at that thought, wondering why it was necessary to announce their presence so loudly. Azulongmon had harrumphed at his self-admonishment. They had earned it, he said, leading the Digital World to freedom. Baihumon was not so sure.

            At the Emperor’s orders, however, Anshar had not greeted them as a city. Only a small contingent of the Imperial Guard met them at the city gates to escort them to the palace. In transit, the tiger Sovereign had asked the reason for this, as the Emperor nearly always extended prolific greetings upon his guests.

            “The palace was attacked earlier this evening, sir,” one of the guards informed him. “The Emperor is safe, and the attack did only minor damage to the guest wing of the complex.” The guest wing, he said? Logically, then, the Emperor was not the target. He asked who was staying there. “The hybrid and his companions, sir.”

            “So someone else had the same idea,” Azulongmon growled.

            “We believe it was an agent of the Enemy,” the guard replied, addressing the dragon mega. That took them both by surprise. Only VictoryGreymon seemed to take the news without any indication of shock. “There was no way to tell how he got here, only that he was an agent. The garrison stationed there said he took their most powerful attacks and didn’t flinch.”

            Baihumon eyed the other Sovereign for reactions. VictoryGreymon remained calm, as ever, taking in the news with analytical patience. Azulongmon, to the contrast, looked livid. His pale, scaled face was paler than usual, and his long beard twitched irritably. It proved his theory wrong, the tiger realized with some relief. If the Enemy was willing to destroy him, then there it was likely that the hybrid would side with the Empire.

            “There’s more, sir,” the same guard interrupted, breaking the mega Digimon’s concentration. Baihumon glanced down at him and beckoned him to speak. Any information would prove valuable in their interrogation tomorrow. But it seemed to him that it might only be a formality now. “Cotramon also digivolved.”

            Ah! So that was the trepidation he had observed in Azulongmon. He must have found out sooner than he, with all the communications equipment he lugged along with him. Those who had known the humans of the Liberation War knew this was not just a spontaneous evolution. Something incredible had happened, and whether or not they wanted it, the humans were now inextricably a part of their lives.

_Fin_


	8. Convictions

            The eyes of the universe peered down on him. They were inquisitive, judgmental and overwhelmingly huge. Michael wished the others were with him now. But the Sovereignty had prohibited them from standing together until after they conducted the initial interviews. Three of the nine Sovereigns surrounded him, the imposing auras of just the three driving his senses into the ground.

            In the back of his mind, he remembered Cotramon’s words that it would take effort to make it through this in one piece. The largest of them was a serpentine dragon surrounded by chains and a flowing white mane; he glared at Michael through icy blue eyes. If only judging by the stony cordiality alone, the hybrid would guess he had made an enemy. Azulongmon, he had called himself. He spoke with a command and clearness of intent that seemed military in nature. But that was what he should have expected.

            The other two were much less inimical to him. Baihumon, who had shown great interest in his life on earth, was almost friendly. Only his visage, two monstrous fangs and a spiked collar, gave Michael pause. His resemblance to something as earth-like as a tiger almost comforted him, but for the fact that he was clearly not from Earth.

            Baihumon asked very specific questions of him. What had he done before coming to the Digital World? Did he ever have any contact with the Enemy? Michael had hastily answered no to that question. Baihumon had cast a reproachful stare at Azulongmon at that point. There must have been some disagreement about him within the council. Inwardly, he was reassured. It had sounded, at first, as if all of them had wanted his head on a platter.

            What did he think of the Digital World? It was beautiful, from what little he had seen of it. How had he digivolved, the third Sovereign asked him. She looked nearly human, and stood only a head taller than him. Rosemon, she had introduced herself as, bowing gracefully and wrapping a leafy cape about her.

            At this point the other two, previously locked in a silent debate, scrutinized him once more. He told them the story, beginning with the onset of his transformation, more than a month ago. No one in that time had thought anything of it, just that he had been sick with a prolonged illness. No Digimon had come to him, had asked him any questions or made any propositions to him, as Azulongmon had assumed. Only the tightness in his stomach and the constant pounding in his skull had alerted him to anything abnormal.

            What was his human family like, Baihumon had asked. They were fine, hardworking people, Michael replied. His father worked at the local manufacturing plant, and his mother worked from home as a sales representative. He was an only child. No, they had never suspected that he was anything other than human. Neither had he.

            And Cotramon? Well, he explained, that had been a _wonderful_ afternoon. The sarcasm shocked the three of them, none of them expecting such harsh criticism. That was what they deserved for that blunder, at the very least. No, he was normally a pacifist. What right had they to mess with his life anyway? He waited impatiently for their justification.

            “You drew me into this,” he said. “Not the other way around.” He looked each of them in the eye, daring them to deny it. They could not have predicted the results of their actions, he knew. But if it had not been for their meddling in the first place, he might have turned out normal. “What gives you the right to play god anyway? Who said it was okay for you try and make a Digimon?”

            Azulongmon snapped his jaw shut and brought a claw alarmingly close to Michael. “We are the Sovereignty,” he said indignantly. “We led the fight against the Enemy, _your_ father. You cannot possibly comprehend the damage that was done and the number of lives lost to liberate our world. We owe you no explanation!”

            “I beg to differ, Azulongmon,” Baihumon told him. “The hybrid is right. We dabbled in a power that was far greater than us, that we could not hope to understand. In that, we took the life of an ordinary human and made him thus.” He gestured to Michael. Just what would they have done if their machinations had been successful?

            Rosemon sat silent for a moment, and then nodded. “Yes,” she said, seemingly picking up Baihumon’s train of thought. “We would likely have manufactured more and more of them until we had risen an army of our own.”

            Michael flashed the other two a smile before turning back to the dragon. “Then you would have been no better than the Enemy. What makes you morally superior to any other dictator, tyrant or politician?” he demanded. “Especially when you can’t even justify your actions to yourself!”

            “That’s enough out of you!” Azulongmon roared.

            Michael’s head swam and his ears rang from the deafening bellow. But he stood his ground, staring defiantly up at the Sovereign Digimon. “You can’t, and you know it! And when you knew you had made a mistake, you tried to cover it up by sending someone to kill me. How brave of you! How noble! What a joke…” He felt the low rumble of the dragon’s growl rise out of the floor and into his feet.

            He had to wonder what the purpose of all this was in the first place. If they were going to execute him, they might as well get it over with. Only a few humans might miss him. And his two partners, he thought solemnly. Certainly, Cotramon would be the only Digimon to think of him afterwards. “Why don’t you just get it over with,” he asked. “You’ve made up your minds already.”

            A sharp yelp to his left and an alto chuckle from behind alerted him to the laughter of the two other Sovereigns. Azulongmon did not share their mirth, and by Michael’s estimation, looked ready to carry out that sentence. “I have only one more question,” Baihumon told him. “Knowing what you know now, would you change the past? Would you have come on this adventure?”

            He stood motionless, quiet in contemplation. Michael had already admitted to himself that he was never comfortable in his own skin. After the first pains of evolving, and then the exhilaration of digivolving into Helmdramon, he wondered if it were because he had subconsciously known that he was somehow different. It felt right now. He had adapted so quickly to the changes. Now he could walk with perfect balance—and much more, to his surprise.

            Then there were those two: Isaac and Cotramon. Who would he kid if he lied? Somehow, in only knowing them for a few hours, he had come to the conclusion that both of them were worth what had happened. They fought for him, would have died for him. And he, inexplicably, would have done the same. “Adventures are rarely safe,” he said at last. “I don’t think I would change anything so far.”

* * *

            “It’s possible you can be of help to us,” one of the Sovereigns said. Of the two present, he was the smaller, and bore an uncanny resemblance to Tank, who stood behind and to the left of Isaac. VictoryGreymon had offered him a seat on a large cushion and some refreshment. Isaac took it politely and nibbled at it, not sure if Digimon food was fit for his consumption.

            “How do you suppose,” he asked, replacing whatever it was he had taken. The other Digimon was a veritable giant. The tortious Digimon spoke out of one mouth, and finished with another attached to a separate head. He tried not to look at him, unnerved by the strangeness. “I don’t know how one human could be of any help to you.”

            Tank smiled under his helmet. “Your assistance to me in writing my report was invaluable. As you saw, our database was grossly inadequate to suit our needs. It was a total mess, to borrow a human phrase.”

            “More than that,” Ebonwumon started, “we have heard of your involvement in the hybrid’s digivolution.” There was not that much involvement, as far as he was concerned. All he had done was get in the way. “We’ve seen this sort of bond before, a long time ago. It is unique,” the second head finished.

            “Precisely my thoughts,” VictoryGreymon agreed. “Tell us what happened, in your own words.” In his own words? Isaac hardly remembered it. He had not actually thought about it until after the deed was done. But he told them the story, from his perspective. How many Digimon were present? He did not count. Were they hostile toward just the hybrid or to him as well? Both, by his reckoning—Dinohyumon had aimed at him specifically the first time.

            Would he have made the same decision twice?

            “Yes, definitely.”

* * *

            Cotramon knew the protocol as well as anyone. He bowed, greeted them each in turn, and asked how he might be of service to the Empire. Zhuqaiomon told him to stow it. MetalSeadramon and AncientGarurumon had given their consent as well, much to the rookie’s relief. They were not as pompous as some of the others. He had gotten to know the phoenix before. That Digimon stood on his own merits, not on the perceived notion that his rank entitled him to certain treatment. He was the respectable sort, if argumentative.

            Still, somehow he hated to dispose of the protocol entirely. He respected these individuals. Their bravery in the face of the Enemy had saved the Digital World. But it would be as they wished it.

            Zhuqaiomon looked down at him, his red eyes shining. Cotramon suspected he shared Azulongmon’s opinion of Michael and the human world, if not his total xenophobia. These three maintained that a strong self-reliance would ensure their survival. He listened carefully while the rookie gave his own account of what had happened, as did the others.

            “And that’s the way it was,” he finished.

            “I see,” was all any of them had said. He had hoped to gauge their reactions, that they might question him on more specific details, so that he might offer some explanation of his actions. The sense of aggravation was palpable, almost as if the Sovereigns were asking how he dared think for himself.

            They did give him a specific mission, Cotramon mused. He had failed to carry it out, and in fact did the exact opposite as to what they had intended. A startling sense of shame rose up within him. He had failed them. All the work, the effort and the time spent training and preparing himself had gone to waste. He saw it in their eyes and shrunk back from it.

            But wait! The Emperor had chosen him specifically for his ability to analyze and adapt to changing conditions. He had done that. What more justification did he need than the Emperor’s word? He sighed inwardly, chastising himself. A soft growl escaped his lips and he caught himself looking over his shoulder, as if Michael would be there. Be there for what, he wondered? The hybrid had been there for him that morning, making sure he would be victorious. That was more proof he had done the right thing.

            He hoped that Michael was well at the moment. Cotramon had expected the three of them to be interviewed as a whole, not separated. Of course, he knew the reasons behind their isolation—that they might corroborate the three stories. But, and he shuddered involuntarily, Michael was in the presence of the single most callous Digimon in the Empire. Of all of the Sovereignty, Azulongmon alone was possessed of a hatred bordering on fanatical.

            The only comfort the rookie could take was that Baihumon was there as well. As the single greatest supporter of this experiment, he would be sure that Michael would be heard properly, and not hung before his trial had begun.

            His trial? At first it seemed only a metaphor, but as he looked closely, Cotramon could see a certain hint of truth to that analogy. Michael was fighting for his life in that chamber. He and Isaac had it comparatively easy in that he would be stripped of his rank and Isaac merely sent home. But the hybrid, if they found his motives questionable, would be utterly destroyed.

            More and more, he found himself wishing he could be there for support. Soon, he reminded himself, the interviews would be over and they would be brought together before the entire council. Then, only one thing remained. While they waited, watched and worried, the Sovereignty would deliberate. And then it would be decision day.

            Two possibilities remained after that; the hybrid would be executed, or he would be allowed to live. However—and he thought about his own time away from home—the probability of him being a prisoner of the Digital World remained none-to-appealing. Cotramon’s sojourn to the human world had taken merely days, his training and preparation only a handful of weeks. He would be happy to return to his family in Kishar once this was all over. He had not been permitted to send even a letter to them about his mission or what sorts of things he had undergone in his training.

            He wondered if the hybrid would be permitted to contact his family. Surely the Sovereignty had enough honor remaining in their complacent bodies to indulge in that one kindness. But the looks on their faces, and the grumbling, deliberate use of their native language, suggested otherwise.

            “You are dismissed,” Zhuqaiomon said at length. Cotramon sighed. He had done his best. Now it was up to fate. He turned to leave. “Be back here in one hour with the hybrid and his companion. We will have made our decision by then.”

* * *

            The rubble had been cleared by dawn. Reconstruction had already begun on the guest wing of the palace and scaffolding rising hundreds of feet into the air glistened in the bright sunlight. Michael sat near the edge of the guest wing’s garden, on a bench next to an artificial lake, admiring the cool breeze stirring from it.

            His escort, a Digimon assigned to him by the Sovereignty, stood guard close by, eyeing him suspiciously. He had been asked politely if there were any places he would like to see in the palace—bearing in mind of course certain parts were off limits except by invitation from the Emperor. He suggested a walk outside might do him some good.

            The interview had taken place in a tremendous chamber, accommodating the three great Digimon. But despite its size and grandeur, the presence of the megas and the hostile and guarded nature of the questions had stifled him, nearly suffocating the hybrid. He wanted to clear his head. Thankfully, his guard had permitted it.

            Michael had tried striking up a conversation with the Digimon, but to no avail. He had tried speaking to any number of Digimon he had crossed paths with. Most gave him a wayward glance and moved on. Some had given him a properly polite response, but nothing more. He had ended up walking only a fifth of the way around the palace, finally stopping at the bench where he now sat, pondering.

            He would be taken back shortly to face their decision. He had done his best. And he felt confident that Isaac and Cotramon had done theirs as well. Their questions seemed odd in retrospect, though. It seemed that more than just his future depended on the outcome of their deliberations. Judging by Baihumon’s line of questions, it seemed as if Earth itself might be caught in the crossfire.

            An ear twitched. He heard shouting; it was Isaac. The human waved to him, puffing his away along the garden path, out of breath. “We’ve been looking for you,” he called, approaching. Tank was right behind him, keeping up with long, even strides. “How did the interview go?”

            He looked in good spirits. His must have gone well, Michael decided. “It could have gone better, I think. But at least one of the Sovereignty is willing to leave me be.” He motioned for Isaac to take a seat, and the out-of-breath human did so gladly. “Baihumon was very interested in our world,” he informed his partner.

            “I think most of the Sovereigns are willing to let you go,” Isaac replied. Ebonwumon had nearly said so. VictoryGreymon was inclined to agree. Tank had been a tremendous help in assuring their success. But he had yet to hear from Cotramon. “They were very friendly towards me. But then again, I’m not the one on trial either.”

            Tank approached them as well, relieving the guard who had been tailing Michael. “Don’t thank me, human. Your suggestions to improve our database helped win them over. I was able to place the proper information into the index to give both Helmdramon and Huntmon proper status as recognized species of Digimon.”

            “Index?” Michael asked, directing the question to Isaac.

            The BlackWarGreymon bothered him. His presence, ever since they had talked on the balcony, had been a stink to him. It felt black as pitch, like something had taken his spirit and left only an empty husk of a man. By all accounts, he could not justify his position, except by the content of his questions toward the hybrid. Until he could be sure, he wanted to keep his distance from the black Digimon.

            “It’s a sort of digi-dex,” Isaac replied. “A compendium of all known species of Digimon. Tank let me snoop around a bit last night. There are thousands of Digimon listed there,” he informed Michael excitedly. “Some are unique, like you. Others, not so much—like Tank here is a common species.”

            “But an uncommon man,” the mega retorted, chuckling.

            Isaac shared his laughter, but Michael found it hollow. “Right,” he said, trailing off. He tried to smile, reassuring the quizzical look on his human partner’s face. “So what did it have to say about me,” he asked. “Super amazing Digimon powers, right?”

            “Nothing like that,” Isaac told him. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a printed sheet of paper. Written on it were a few printed lines of information and a photo of him. “Tank explained it this way: In addition to the digivolutions, Digimon are classified into types of species and attributes. You’re a humanoid type Digimon, and are classified as having the data attribute. The rest of the information defines your level and the two attacks you can use.”

            “Yes,” he remembered. “And the third part of our little trio?”

            “A beast Digimon,” the human said, pulling out a second sheet. “According to the time stamp, he was only recently added—just a few months ago, in fact. Also has the data attribute. And, of course,” he continued, laying a finger softly on Michael’s bandaged arm, “we know his attacks.”

            That he did. But speak of the devil, where was the Digimon, Michael wondered. He would have thought Cotramon would have joined them already, if he were out of his own interrogation, that is. But the scaly green monster was nowhere in sight. Isaac had not seen him, and Tank could give no answer. Wherever he was, Cotramon was sure to be in a darker mood than any of them.

            Still, Tank reminded them, they had an appointment to keep. They could not afford to waste time speculating on their partner’s whereabouts. Cotramon would be there, Tank assured them. Isaac agreed, and Michael knew it as well. He was trained to obey their authority. And the Sovereignty detested lateness, in any case. They should be moving along, lest they keep the council waiting.

* * *

            Michael felt a curious sensation of fear mixed with eagerness and reluctant resignation. At one point, as he approached the doors to the great chamber, he felt quite ready to hear their decision. A moment later he wanted to shrink back and run away. Stand your ground, he told himself firmly. He had no reason to fear them. He shook his head. He had every reason. They held his life in their hands. Only a fool would not be afraid.

            At least this time he was not alone. Isaac stood next to him at the threshold, clasping his shoulder in a firm grip. It steadied the hybrid’s frazzled nerves, and he willed his tail to stop twitching. He looked at his human partner.

            “I won’t let them do it,” Isaac stated.

            If it came down to it, Michael had no doubt the human would risk his life to defend him. He could not ask that, though. He had to face what was coming, good or bad. Now he heard footsteps along the marbled floor. Cotramon drew near, face solemn, and he too put a firm grip on his other shoulder. He was glad that he was not alone this time.

            “Are you ready,” the Digimon asked him.

            “As I’ll ever be.”

            The massive doors swung open, revealing the broad cavity that the Sovereignty had selected for this engagement. It only just accommodated them. They formed a circle around spotlighted area in the middle, undoubtedly where they would face judgment. The only room larger, Cotramon whispered, would have been the throne room in the central tower. They might yet see that room as well.

            All at once Michael felt overwhelmed by the huge Digimon. His tail began twitching again and his knees shook. He was sure they could smell the fear emanating from him like a bad odor. Sweat beaded on his forehead and trickled down his muzzle. He wiped it away and tried to swallow. His tongue was shoe leather.

            He felt the grip from Isaac’s hand get tighter. He was nervous too, Michael realized, and was doing his best not to show it. The thought brought him some comfort. But the human needed reassuring too, he decided. He had to support his partners like they now supported him. “Don’t be scared,” he whispered, wrapping his tail around Isaac and squeezing once. “You’re a good man, and they wouldn’t dare harm a good man.”

            “It isn’t me I’m worried about,” he murmured back.

            Then they were there, in the center of the great hall, the eyes of the universe fixed upon them. Cotramon shushed the two visitors, but tried to give them an encouraging smile. Tank had not entered with them, Michael realized. A loud bang informed him that the doors had been shut, and to his alarm, locked from within. He gulped once.

            “Stand and be heard,” VictoryGreymon intoned. “You stand before us, hybrid, accused of crimes against the Empire and the Digital World.” The other megas remained silent, listening intently. “This council has convened to review the evidence in this case. We have listened to your testimony, and the accounts of the two relevant witnesses.”

            There he paused. This was it, Michael knew: decision time. His heart pounded in his chest and throbbed in his ears. The Sovereignty must of heard it—they stared at him fixedly, unblinking, almost statues. He wanted to shout, to scream at them, get on with it! The urge to run hit him, then to fight his way out.

            No! Stand your ground. You are not a coward, and you have done nothing wrong. He felt the clasping hands on his body grow tighter still. They were there. And they would not let anything happen. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Try to keep calm, he told himself. He took another, and then raised his head to meet eyes with the Sovereign directly in front of him, Azulongmon.

            “It is the decision of this council,” Azulongmon began, “that you are to be brought before the Emperor with the recommendation that you…” Michael cringed, feeling the animosity like a knife in his flesh. “…That you be allowed to keep your life.”

             What was that? Had he heard correctly?

            “Upon corroborating your stories, we have determined that you are not, in fact, a threat to our world,” Baihumon stated. “Your spontaneous digivolution and subsequent brawl in the streets was the result of an unprovoked attack upon your human partner, who you defended with honor. The damage from the battle last night was likewise caused by an unprovoked attack which your Digimon partner ended.”

            He had heard them right!

            “However,” and the growl from Azulongmon bordered on dangerous. “Upon final approval of our decision, you will hereby be a permanent resident of the Digital World.” Where they could keep an eye on him, the Digimon’s expression read. “You will be granted citizenship and the rights and responsibilities thereof. But you may never again return to the Human World, or make contact with its citizens.”

            “That isn’t fair!” The locked eyes of the draconic mega flashed angrily as they turned to Isaac. “You can’t deprive him of his home! What are you so scared of?” Even Michael tried to shush him. The other Sovereigns looked on calmly, only a hint of surprise on their various faces. “What about his family? What about our friendship? I’m his partner!”

            Azulongmon flushed under his silvery scales. “This is our decision,” he roared, instantly silencing the human. “Barring the Emperor’s approval, it is final. We uphold the laws of this land and its security, something which a puny specimen like you cannot possibly comprehend. You have been shown a great deal of latitude, _small_ one. But I suggest you do not try my patience any further.” He barked once and the gate to the outside corridor opened, signaling an end to the proceedings.

  _Fin_


	9. Trial By Fire

            Black skies thundered overhead. Thick clouds of soot and ash choked his breath. Decades ago, he had had to improvise an internal air purifier. His lungs had suffered irreparable damage in the meanwhile. Other parts of his body had been replaced by mechanical organs as well. Some of them had been fashioned haphazardly as, system by system, his body shut down. Millenniumon could scarcely call himself a Digimon anymore.

            Now, as he stood in the rocky courtyard outside his personal laboratory, he wondered if it had been worth it. He remembered the prototypes for some of his machines. Some in particular had shown great success—the manufacturing of artificial Digimon to be precise, allowed him to build an army for his master that rivaled any the Digital World had seen before. The resources of this dark and dreary plane had been at his disposal from the beginning. They needed no sleep, no food, and had no capacity to question orders.

            A wet splotch of water on his muzzle alerted him to the coming downpour. He enjoyed the rain—it was a rare and wonderful gift in this prison. He could stay and stand there, looking up, letting the water fizzle and evaporate from the energy his body produced. That a single stray drop should survive long enough to impact him was an even greater gift.

            The peels of thunder and cracks of lightning were nothing out of the ordinary. Electrical storms presided over Neflhiem with an even greater authority than the Enemy. That was just as well, Millenniumon thought. The master was not a god, despite what he would have the world believe. And any moment, the divine would prove that once again with rainfall.

            His ear tingled with a mild electrical charge, just enough to call attention to it. Then again, this time more powerful than before, making him wince. The master called him. He sighed, turning from the approaching storm, making great strides across the courtyard. He felt another drop of rain, then a third, and then he was inside the grim confines of the castle once more. There was never rest for the weary.

* * *

            “You summoned me, Master?” he said, approaching the Enemy. He stopped at a respectful distance, and then lowered his eyes. No one met the Enemy’s gaze. Millenniumon glanced at the maps—two of them still showed Anshar and Earth. A new one displayed Ea Prime situated front and center, showing its schematics.

            The Black Diamond said nothing, but only ran the tip of his claw down the map of Ea Prime. A real-time image appeared of an undersea city encased in spherical bubbles, connected by corridors. Skyscrapers towered within the structures, lending their strength to supporting the massive weight of the city. It gleamed in the depths.

            Millenniumon had ruled that city and its plane for years. The small continent to the north proved to be ideal to conduct his research. The storms raging on the ocean’s surface, the isolation of the location, and the difficulty in landing on that terrain made a siege of his stronghold nigh impossible.

            “And yet somehow,” the Enemy said, seeming to know his thoughts, “you managed to lose it.” Millenniumon knew better than that. And this was no reprimand; this was the prelude to war. He would throw the world into chaos and destroy anything that got in his way. Ea was a gem, a city of significant cultural and strategic value. From there, an opposing army could mount an attack on two layers of the Digital World.

            “Will we march upon it, Sir?” Millenniumon asked, though the answer was clear. He tapped the image with a single digit. It disappeared suddenly, making the intentions of his master unmistakably clear. “And the hybrid, Sir?” He gulped.

            “Bring him to me.”

* * *

            Two days passed. Then a third. Finally a week had come and gone. The three waited; one with patience, one with apprehension, and the third because he had no choice. No doubt existed as to whether they would be granted an audience with the Emperor. All that remained for them to do was sit, and try not to go mad in the meanwhile.

            Michael felt the appalling sensation of being up to his neck in quicksand. He had tried to occupy his mind during the days leading up to their appeal. As part of his parole—and, that was really all it was—the Sovereignty had agreed to release him into the custody of his Digmon partner, who helped to keep him busy.

            He had snooped around the palace, that is, where the guards allowed him. He no longer required an escort, though he was usually to be found in the company of his two partners. He had begun to recognize faces, and Cotramon had taught him a few basic phrases in their native tongue. Michael had attempted to teach Isaac a proper “hello” in the growlish language. The results were laughable.

            That had been the only joy he had experienced thus far. The vocal cords of humans, or so Cotramon had explained, were incapable of reproducing the necessary sounds. The closest the human had come was, in the Digimon’s opinion, garbled gibberish. “With a hint of profanity,” he had said, rounding off his criticism. Isaac smiled and shrugged his shoulders.

            “Regardless of what happens,” Cotramon told them, “I think it’s wise that you learn our language.” Every day, for a few hours, the three of them would convene in one of the apartments the Sovereignty had allotted to them for lessons. Michael, much to his surprise, found that discerning the peculiarities of Digimon-speech came easily to him. He picked it up as naturally as digivolving, and Isaac made a show of learning to understand the language just as well.

            “‘Regardless of what happens?’” Michael repeated. He held out little hope for his freedom. The Emperor might even decide that the Sovereignty were wrong and execute him. Or worse, he might execute his friends. If the worst he had to face was exile, sure. He would survive. But he would call down fire from heaven at the thought of any consequences affecting his partners.

            He sighed, staring out the window. The city was massive. Up until now, he had explored only a very small part of it. Michael dared not venture outside the palace gates, even with the escort that was offered to him. His mistrust of the BlackWarGreymon had only deepened since the last attack. The Digimon continually stared at him while he was around, studying him like a laboratory experiment. And that was while he was around. Isaac reported that he would frequently disappear without any explanation, and return as mysteriously as he had vanished.

            Cotramon chalked it up to business within the Imperial Guard, an organization which—if it were to be believed—was made up of only the most elite warrior Digimon. Thus, and it had been explained to him several times by the normal palace guards, they answered to no one but the Sovereignty and the Emperor. Far too much authority was given to them, in his opinion. Tank offered no explanation and had not been asked for one by either Isaac or Cotramon.

            Lately, however, it seemed even they had noticed his ever-increasing absences. “I don’t like it,” Isaac remarked late one evening. Tank had been missing that entire day, disappearing around noon and only returning just in time for the evening meal. “I wonder what he gets up to.”

            Michael sighed as he waited for Cotramon to redress his initial wounds. Soon he would be fully recovered, the Digimon assured him. “I’m sure Tank has a life outside the three of us,” he said, his tail twitching once in agitation. “Family, friends, the opera… Whatever it is, it’s not our business. And besides that, I don’t trust him. Have you seen the way he looks at me?”

            “Like a piece of meat,” Cotramon said, nodding. He had begun to distrust the mega Digimon as well. Most, if not all, the Digimon they had encountered regarded Michael as a curiosity. The looks and attitude of the BlackWarGreymon gave Cotramon the sense that his partner was more a tool—something that could be used. For what end, he could not fathom. The rookie finished with the bandages, and looked up just as Tank came through the door.

            “Speak of the devil,” Isaac commented. He shall appear, the human finished in his thoughts. Tank glanced at him once, then looked over the hybrid, nodding as if a moment he had been waiting for had finally come. “Where have you been?”

            The ebon-scaled mega narrowed his eyes. “Out,” he said, his positive disposition collapsing into an air of menace. Michael gulped. He spoke as if all of the rapport he had built with Isaac meant nothing at all. And his purpose was clear. “You,” he pointed to Michael, “and I must speak. In private…”

            The air took on a sudden chill. It felt familiar, like the night they had spoken on the balcony. And, more than that, Michael thought, he remembered the same ill will toward him from before he had changed, as if from a dream. The almost unnatural sensation threatened to overwhelm him and he began gravitating toward the open door.

            There was more to it than that, though. The aura which he had felt emanating from Tank when they had first met had changed. It felt more powerful, less like a Digimon, and terribly dark. His experience in dealing with Digimon of various power levels had given him enough presence of mind to know that all Digimon, regardless of their loyalties, had a very organic feeling to them. He could think of only one other creature that had felt so empty.

            Two paces from the door he stopped, a green claw clasping his shoulder firmly, bringing his mind back to the reality at hand. Cotramon had the same thought. The Devidramon that had attacked them had the same sort of air about it. He pulled the hybrid back, growling. “Whatever you have to say, say it to all of us.”

            “This is between the hybrid and I,” Tank replied, his voice much harsher. The growl in his syllables became more pronounced, as if he were an animal on a leash, barely controlled. And whatever held that leash had certainly not tamed him. “You had your chance to take care of him, and you failed. Now it is _my_ turn.”

            It _was_ the Enemy. He knew it. The decades since the war had ended were peaceful, but everyone knew it could not last. The Sovereignty had known—that was why they attempted their experiment. Cotramon had known, and that was why he felt a sudden surge of hatred. Hatred, mixed with fierce loyalty. And not just for the Digital World, his home, or the Emperor, but for Isaac and Michael. The Enemy had taken too much already, and it was going to be over his dead body if he took any more.

            “You say what you will,” Cotramon stated. “We won’t give in.”

            Tank seemed unconcerned. Was his mind still intact inside that shell of a body? Yes. He had to be. But he was still devoted to the Enemy. “Perhaps. Very well,” he said, a calm coming over his voice and the severity lessening. “The hybrid will come with me to Neflhiem. My Master only wishes to meet him. Then he will be returned. A refusal on your part would be most unwise, Michael.”

            “You’re threatening me?” Michael asked, almost surprised. “In the palace of the Digimon Emperor? And you think you can get away with it?” There had to be at least a thousand elite guards trained and at the ready for any eventuality. Two Sovereigns still remained, and that was not including Cotramon and himself. “Do you really think you can make me do anything?”

            The black dragon smiled, and took two steps toward a wall. It contained a flat screen that Michael had learned would broadcast the Digital World’s equivalent of on-demand television. Tank pressed a button and an image appeared on the screen. “This is a live feed from Ea Prime, a plane below us. Allow me to demonstrate.”

            The spherical structures were familiar to any Digimon. This city was a jewel, shining bright in the depths of the ocean plane of Ea, one of the harshest dimensions of the Digital World. The city had been constructed generations ago, even before the Enemy came to power, an engineering marvel that no one was sure exactly how it came to be.

            Suddenly a flash came from one of the great glass domes, and then a muffled boom. The camera shook, and with no warning, a quarter million lights flickered and died as the dome collapsed under the weight of the surrounding ocean. Cotramon jumped, shocked, horrified at the sight. The image was not lost on either of the two earthlings as well.

            “Those were innocent people…” Isaac stammered, his eyes darting from the debris and rubble slowly sinking into black depths to the Digimon who had perpetrated it. How could he? How many people had been in there?

            Tank smiled smugly at them. “There are four more devices planted in Ea Prime. Refuse me again,” he dared. Michael growled. Cotramon did the same. Isaac balled his fists. An alert came over the palace intercom, calling all senior military officials to the throne room. “Now,” he stated, “my Master awaits your company.”

            Michael felt the intensity, the heat, the energy from his partners. He could sense it; now was the time. He could not let this monster get away with an attack like that. This was all because of him—if he had not ever come here, if he had just kept quiet, or if he had never digivolved in the first place. No.

            _“Pyromon digivolve to…”_

            Cotramon had been there, served there during the war. That city had been a sanctuary to thousands of soldiers like him, a place to relinquish the cares of the war to another day. It was a special place—he had made _friends_ there, had lived there, had known that city and all its splendors. It was a second home. And how could a member of the Imperial Guard even think to destroy it, what it represented? He was supposed to be loyal to freedom, to the common good of the Digital World.

_“Cotramon digivolve to…”_

            His betrayal would not go unpunished. _“Huntmon!”_

            No one else would be hurt because of him. _“Helmdramon!”_

            The room grew smaller by the moment as the three Digimon moved into fighting position. Huntmon, aware of this, would have to move the fight outside, or else the collateral damage would be too high. He glanced over his shoulder at Isaac, and the human at once took cover. Then his eyes met Michael’s. They were not likely to win.

            “Do you honestly think you can defeat me, hybrid?” the BlackWarGreymon queried, laughing at the audacity. “Two champion Digimon, against a mega of my caliber? Absurd little creature.” He crouched, ready to pounce on the newly evolved champions. “You will be made to know how futile your resistance is. _Mega Claw!_ ”

            Splintered wood and fragments of sofa scattered about the room as the mega struck furniture, missing both champions as the rolled out of the way. Alarms blared, sirens howled. Tank caught his momentum on the floor, swinging his feet around, kicking at Michael. The attack caught him in the chest, sending him bowling into and then through the opposite wall.

            He staggered to his feet, bracing himself against the outermost wall. Huntmon had already moved in, darting past repeated jabs by their enemy, then laying down a succession of furious punches to his abdomen. He sneered, letting the champion pound vainly at his armor. Tank backhanded him with a resounding _whump_.

            “This is pathetic,” he roared, malicious laughter rising in his voice.

            “Hey!” Michael shouted in his ear. The black Digimon turned to him, unabashed, acid eyes locking with the hybrid’s defiant gaze. “You didn’t forget about me, did you? _Nova Punch!_ ” With all the force he could muster, his fiery fist launched into the mega’s faceplate, smashing it to pieces. _“Nova Punch!”_ One more time, he carried his weight around for a second swing, sending his foe flying through the outside wall.

            Then the room fell silent, save for a salvo of small arms fire from the courtyard below. Michael reached for his Digimon partner and dragged him to his feet. “He’s strong,” Michael told him. “Is that what the Enemy is like?”

            Huntmon shook his head. “Not even close.” Then he turned to Isaac, who narrowly managed to miss being crushed by debris. “Go for help, get the Sovereignty. Azulongmon and Baihumon are still in the palace. Whatever you do, bring them back.” Isaac nodded. Leaping to his feet, he bounded down the corridor in the direction of the throne room.

            They would have to hold him off until Isaac returned. Huntmon had already taken a beating, just from the one hit that Tank had landed on him. The hybrid seemed to be in better shape. “Don’t let him hit you,” Huntmon advised, moving toward the broken wall. “And don’t let him use his main attack. Not here.” Michael nodded, head throbbing, following his partner. Together, they leapt from the balcony.

* * *

            The human found it ironic that it was thanks to Tank that he knew the layout of the palace so well. He thanked his maker that he kept in good shape, even if he were not outright athletic. The palace was huge, even for the Digimon. For a human, it was a city in itself. Even if it were fit to human standards, his trek to the throne room would have left him winded. But taking into account that the average Digimon had a stride twice the length of his, he thought his heart might burst out of his chest.

            Other guards were running to and fro, some in the same direction as him, and others back the way he had come. All of them were in as much a hurry as him, donned in armor with the same seal that Tank had worn in deceit. One barely managed to avoid running into him, offering no more than a terse command that he get out of the way.

            Of course, humans were too weak to fight any Digimon, let alone something as awesome as a mega. He had gotten in the way not once, not twice, but three times now. How had he gotten himself into this mess? Michael, he reminded himself. And now it involved more than just the three of them. An entire world, all its people, had involved him in their fight.

            And curse that disease called compassion! The image of the undersea city imploding flashed in his mind. That could easily have been one of the cities in the human world. The enemy could target New York, Los Angeles, or any number of other major metropolises. What if it had been one of them? Or even his home? The small, pathetic town out in the middle of nowhere lacked any strategic value. But this Enemy was cruel, he could see. It was the application of terror that decided his targets.

            At last, the massive doors to the throne room loomed before him. Two guards barred entry. “You cannot go in,” they stated, easily thwarting his plans. His exhausted body nearly gave out as two large hands grasped at him and held him back. “The Emperor is engaged in a war council with the Sovereignty,” they told him. “No one is permitted in.”

            “I don’t care!” Isaac shouted, his voice echoing above the chaos and sirens. He had to get in, to get their attention. “Your palace is under attack by your own guard! Let me in!” He shoved past them, only to have the sharp end of a spear thrust toward him. They knew what was happening, Isaac could tell. Their eyes betrayed a look of anxiety. Tank was powerful—elite even in the Imperial Guard. “My friends are fighting him and losing while you jabber away about protocol… Let me in!”

            “No one is permitted into the chambers while council is in session,” the guards repeated, halfheartedly.

            “Sovereigns!” the human shouted, once again heard over the din. He pounded on the door, echoing even louder. “Sovereigns! I need your help!” His face felt hot and sweat poured from his brow. The guards grabbed him again, locking arms around him, preventing Isaac from moving at all. “Help!”

            “What’s all this racket!” a voice boomed from the chamber. Heavy footsteps stalked toward the gates and they opened wide, revealing the two Sovereigns glaring down at him. The shouting turned to growls, barely comprehensible to Isaac as their language. “You insolent human,” Azulongmon growled. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

            “Let him speak.” Isaac looked up, blinking. The new voice was not either of the Sovereigns, nor was it from any of the various Digimon surrounding him. A robed figure, donned in blue and gold, stalked toward him. “Let the human speak.”

            The great white dragon snapped his jaws shut instantly, only muttering a brief, “Yes,” before ordering the two guards to release him. “The Emperor wishes you to speak. Make your case as brief as possible.”

            The Emperor? Oh thank god, he thought. “Tank,” he panted, “attacked us. Cotramon and Michael are fighting him, but they won’t last long.” He looked up at the two Sovereigns. Baihumon looked back with worry, Azulongmon with contempt. “He’s working for the Enemy,” Isaac said at length. “You don’t care about us, I know… but he’s responsible for the explosions.”

            Both of them locked eyes with each other, then down back at Isaac. Azulongmon said nothing, but swooped out of the throne room and through the corridors at full speed toward the battle. Baihumon bent low to the human, holding out one of his massive paws. In it lay a device, pear-shaped with a small screen and a few buttons.

            “He’s gone to help,” the tiger said, extending the device to him. Too small for his claws to manipulate, its fine detail was perfectly suited to a human hand. “You are not the first humans to have come to our world. In the past, your kind has helped us achieve great victories.” Isaac took the contraption.

            Warm to the touch, he thought. It almost pulsed with its own energy, as if it were alive. Suddenly Baihumon seemed much less intimidating, more trustworthy. Isaac saw the admiration in his eyes, and the confidence in him. “Use the digivice,” the sovereign said. “It will help him digivolve further.”

* * *

            _“Black Tornado!”_ Tank dove, spinning as he did so into a torrent of black energy. No one had yet contributed any significant damage to him, save Michael. The astounding power of his punches and kicks had astonished the guards and left the mega’s armor in tatters. Yet even he had not been able to stop his attacks.

            The BlackWarGreymon barely missed Michael again, the champion hybrid only just diving out of the way. He was fatigued. His hits had become impotent and he felt on the verge of collapse. Tank knew it, and knew his weaknesses. He must have asked to be assigned as the hybrid’s escort, to study him, how he thought, and how he reacted.

            Michael groaned, picking himself up, breathing hard. The first fight had been a fluke, but Devidramon had been meant to test him. Instead he got two champions. But he had also compiled enough data to determine whether he were a threat. The Enemy must have decided so; otherwise Tank would not have reacted so viciously to his refusal.

            Huntmon had slowed, his attacks of opportunity becoming fewer and farther between. Tank eyed him, an evil grin passing over his face before leaping at him. _“Mega Claw!”_ Black fire sparked at the tip of his arm-guards as he thrust them at the draconic Digimon.

            _“Blindside Inferno!”_ Michael lunged for the attacking mega, bringing down a fiery kick from above. Tank had known it was coming, however, and turned his attack upward at the last moment, striking at him. The hybrid crashed in a geyser of rocks and dust, unmoving.

            “Pathetic,” Tank said, spitting. That had been the nature of his strategy. Attack his allies; weaker than him, they would either not withstand his full power, or else the hybrid would intervene. At that point, he would strike. Now, and Huntmon looked on, horrified, he could finish it with one blow.

            The mega readied his claws, using one foot to flip the limp body of his foe on his back. “So much for a hero. _Mega…_ ”

            “ _Lightning Whip!”_ A silver chain whipped from out of nowhere at the black Digimon, a near miss for Michael, and a powerful crack of thunder exploding on the BlackWarGreymon’s chest. A second chain snapped at him, driving him back further, before the angry, booming voice of Azulongmon silenced the battlefield. “Traitor! How dare you defile the Empire!”

            Tank only humphed at him, standing again. “You wanted him dead,” he said, daring the Sovereign to deny it. “Now when I carry out the sentence, you stop me? Does such hypocrisy exist so readily in the Sovereign Council?” He coughed, pain registering on his face. “There is no leadership there. Only the Black Diamond is fit to rule this world!”

            “I respect the decision of the council,” Azulongmon thundered.

            Isaac stared, unsure if he were hearing correctly. Baihumon had arrived with him shortly after, also wondering at the turn of events, though he suspected it were more out of deference to the Emperor’s impending decision than the rights of the individual. He growled, taking a defensive position between the hybrid and Tank. He had to be preserved.

            Isaac followed behind, rushing to his partner, seeing him lying prone in the myriad rubble. “Wake up,” he said. “Wake up, Michael. The Sovereigns are here to help.” He shook the champion, eliciting a moan. The flood of relief was tangible, almost to the point of the human fainting. But no, he had to stay strong too. They both did. “Can you stand?”

            Michael’s eyes opened halfway, and he blinked the blurriness away from his vision. Isaac looked down at him. He felt the human clutching him tightly, shaking him out of his fatigue. Just the mere presence of his partner strengthened him. Could he stand? Anything for his partners, he decided, struggling to get to his feet. He hurt, his head pounded and his arms and legs were weak. But something ignited in his chest—he had felt it before.

            A white-hot heat burned in the pit of his stomach, expanding, enveloping him, bringing strength back into his tired limbs. His vision returned and the ringing in his ears subsided. Isaac stood next to him, clutching something. But it glowed, howled; somehow it was channeling the human’s resolve into him. Now it was not just his own strength he felt, but the combined determination of two beings.

            Baihumon sensed the growing energies as well, and turned aside, expectant. Tank glared, a feral hatred gleaming in his bitter eyes. The Sovereign had expected this, he knew it was going to happen. As soon as the digivice had entered into the hands of the human, Isaac, it was inevitable.

            _“Helmdramon digivolve to…”_

            A white light exploded from Michael, dazzling even more than the desert sun. Crimson armor covered ebony scales, crisscrossed with wires jutting in and out of his hide. His wings kicked up a storm of dust, the engines attached to them whirring to life. Then, golden tipped claws at the ready, he announced his name.

            _“Heliomon!”_

_Fin  
_


	10. The Mercy Seat

            _“Heliomon!”_

            Time stood still; no one moved, as all eyes were transfixed on the newly evolved ultimate. He had grown in size, a ten-foot giant with a wingspan to match. How it had happened, Isaac could not tell. He had only wanted his partner to stand. From the condition he was in, even that would have been a miracle. But this? Something else, something entirely new, had entered into his mind at the last moment.

            Isaac had wanted to fight, to win, and to stop the madness going on around them. Even the Sovereigns had taken notice. Azulongmon stared mouth agape, as if the prospect of Michael digivolving again had not been possible. His counterpart, though, moved aside, giving him a wide birth. Baihumon’s inhuman face might have been difficult to read, but his eyes spoke of untold dreams come true—distant memories, coming back to life.

            The human clutched the digivice, its heat and light radiating within him and his partner. He looked up to his partner, whose eyes met him in turn. What had happened, Michael wondered, unspeaking. He knew he had evolved once more, to the next level. He saw the battlefield clearly, his fatigue having vanished, his wounds inexplicably healed. He took a step forward, the engines on his back whirring to life, kicking up a gale.

            “Take cover,” he told Isaac. The human nodded once and ran. An overturned stone bench gave him cover, and a perfect view of the fight to come. Michael hoped it was enough. He clenched his knuckles. With a blur of movement, he slammed his fist into Tank’s sneering grin, bowling him over.

            He flipped once, grabbing an entrenched piece of rubble and summersaulting to his feet. “Most impressive, Michael. You would have made a proud warrior in my master’s service.” He spat blood, wiping the crimson stain from his muzzle. “It’s a shame we’ll never know. _Mega Claw!”_

            The attack missed, Michael side-stepping it with an ease that bordered on practiced. A powerful push upward from his wings and he flipped, diving one foot into the mega’s upturned back, throwing him into the ground below. Another gust pushed him higher. Slits began opening in his armor, revealing an array of explosive projectiles. “I’m not interested in what would have been. And I’m not interested in your ‘master’ either. _Solar Missile!”_

            Dozens of missiles rained down on the black Digimon, the resulting explosion even more dazzling than the sun. The light died away, leaving a crater in its wake. Pieces of Tank’s armor littered the hole, but Michael saw no sign of the Digimon. His presence remained though, like a malignant cancer, blighting the rest of the world.

            “As I said, impressive.” The mega spoke from above, casting a shadow on the hybrid. “But my powers are far beyond even that of the Sovereignty. How could one paltry ultimate hope to defeat me?” With horror, Michael realized that all the damage that he and his allies had incurred on Tank was merely superficial. Even Azulongmon’s attacks were useless against him. “Now that you understand how utterly useless your attempt to defeat me was, I will end this.”

            He lifted his hands, high, a dark mass swirling between them. The hybrid shuddered, the aura palpable. Michael looked on, in awe, of the power he had amassed in the palm of his hands. The negative energy permeated his being, a feeling of dread overtaking him. How could anyone stop such a powerful attack? The explosive energy building up was enormous; it would destroy the palace completely, along with a sizable chunk of the city.

            Why were the Sovereigns just sitting there? Did they have a plan? No, they were just going to let it happen, let that creep destroy even more innocent people. The hybrid revved his engines. Then, with a burst of fire from the exhaust ports, he took off toward the mega above him. Tank dodged him easily, not even breaking his concentration.

            Okay, Michael thought, coming to a halt behind him. He need not have to disable him entirely, just the attack. He could do that. His claws sparked with electric energy, arcs of gold lightning tracing between his fingertips. _“Tazer Claw!”_ In an instant, the clawed tips shot from his hands, wrapping around the BlackWarGreymon, sending millions of volts of electricity through his body. _“Tazer Claw!”_ Again, he threw a charge through his cables. One more time, and then another. He could hardly maintain flight now.

            Was it enough? The mega convulsed, his concentration failing and the energy beginning to dissipate harmlessly into the atmosphere. “Attack him now,” he shouted. “Do it now while he’s disabled!” He spied his Digimon partner below, shaking his head. He would not do it. Michael was too close. The charge was fading quickly, the convulsions lessening. “Attack him!”

            “Don’t do it!”

            The lone human understood the situation perfectly. The Sovereigns held their attacks for good reason: at such close range, the two competing attacks would have devastating results. Michael had resolved that by dispelling part of that energy. But in doing so, he had put himself too close. Azulongmon might get his wish after all.

            More than just _his_ life was at stake. A city, the lives of countless people, and their head-of-state were at risk in this confrontation. Michael was willing to sacrifice himself—he spied Huntmon, the same look of apprehension, and knowing, in his sapphire eyes.

            _“Aurora Force!”_ Then it came, the decision, the ultimatum. Azulongmon gathered his own energy—experience helping him execute his attack much more quickly than his rival mega. The sphere of energy he unleashed, opal-esque in its appearance, advanced rapidly upon its target. Now no one had a choice.

            _“Terra Destroyer!”_ The sudden announcement came alarmingly from Tank, who had disavowed himself of Michael’s cables, the ultimate Digimon barely keeping in flight now. Tank threw the churning ball of negative energy, hurling it toward the palace itself, half finished. It would be enough.

            The explosion blinded them all, forcing Isaac to shield his eyes. He felt heat wash over him, a great rush of burning, suffocating air. The sound left him deafened; only faint murmurs and the blood pumping in his ears reached him. Muffled voices became shouting and his vision cleared. Then claws, hands and other digits all pointed to the sky. The top spire of the palace was demolished, but remarkably left everything else intact. Something had intercepted the attack.

            Then another roar of shouts, and the mass of Digimon still in the courtyard began moving at once toward a central point. Isaac followed, still winded from his sprint through the palace. He need not see what the commotion was, however. Michael—the presence of his partner had faded, nearly to extinction. He lay there, moaning, bruised, and barely alive.

* * *

          Hands shoved him, pushed him, shook him violently awake. Michael hated mornings. More than that, he hated being woken in the morning by anything except smell of freshly cooked breakfast. He brushed the intrusive hands aside and pulled up the blanket, moaning. Everything was sore, as if he had come out of a blender.

            “Someone hit the snooze button,” he growled, opening his eyes. The odds, he realized, of them leaving were nil. Immediately his eyes focused on the muzzle protruding from his face. He blinked, then tried to focus his vision farther out. Isaac’s face swam into view and coalesced into something more coherent then a blur.

            “You crazy, stupid, son of a…”

            “Hey, I thought you were a gentleman,” Michael interrupted. Relieved, Isaac smiled. Yeah, everything was alright. No one had to worry about him. Michael knew his limitations, and knew what he could do. “Is everyone okay?” he asked, not seeing Cotramon.

            “Everyone’s fine,” Isaac replied. “Except you, that is. You’ve been out of it for three days.” Darned fool. What was wrong with him? “You could have gotten yourself killed. What were you thinking?” Brave or stupid? Or maybe he was plain nuts! Crazier than a soup sandwich, he decided. He sighed.

            Michael grinned back at him, diffusing Isaac of anymore berating remarks. “I was thinking,” he said weakly, “what would my partner do?” Damn. Isaac might have done just that. In fact, he had on several occasions charged in without thinking. Consequences be damned, he had to help his partner. He had only done the same. In hindsight, however, Michael wondered if the splitting headache had been worth it.

            He sat up, pushing up the pillows behind him into a makeshift sofa. “So where is Cotramon?” The human sat beside him and shrugged. So the Digimon still refused to trust him? How could he blame Cotramon, though, after all the trouble he had caused? “And the Sovereigns? Is Azulongmon still dead-set against me?”

            In truth, Isaac did not know. Azulongmon had left immediately after the incident to tend to the affairs of his own realm, or so the human had been told. The Digital World was in chaos after the assault on Ea Prime. Baihumon had been more impressed than ever, though, seeing his gift to Isaac go toward its intended use.

            The human fingered the device, its roundish shape fitting snugly into his fist. Every so often, it beeped at him faintly, almost as if it were wishing him encouragement. And every time he came close to his partner, it felt physically warmer in his palm. He had explored the functions of his digivice—that was the term that the tiger Digimon had used—with varying success.

            He pulled it out of his pocket, holding it out to Michael. “What is it?” the hybrid asked, taking the machine. It sparked once and beeped excitedly at them, the display lighting up into a three dimensional image of Michael and his Digimon index information. “A portable digi-dex? Where did you get that?”

            Isaac took it back—it was almost too hot to handle. “No,” he said, looking over the information. “This is new. Baihumon gave it to me the day of the battle. He said it would let you digivolve again.” But there was more to it than that. He had spoken to the tiger Sovereign twice more since then, each time about the device. “It’s called a digivice.”

            He clipped the machine to his belt, patting it gently as the display disappeared. “I learned a lot while you were out. We aren’t the first partners.” Michael arched a brow and leaned back on his pillows. Isaac doubted if the hybrid believed him, but he had heard the story, straight from the source. There was mistrust, fear, violence—much like how they had met Cotramon. “It’s true,” the human said. “There were a few of them. They randomly fell through the gates that lead here and ended up in the middle of a war.”

            It must have been the Liberation War that Cotramon had mentioned. Michael found it strange that the Digimon only ever spoke of it in passing—he would have thought that something that important would be worth telling them about. Obviously the Sovereigns had nothing to hide. Why should he?

            That was for another time, he decided. But the digivice continued to beep happily away, even as Isaac put it away. “You sure saved my tail with that thing.” He grinned, ears twitching once again with the sound of an approaching Digimon. “I don’t think I would have made it without you.”

            Isaac lowered his head. “Thank Baihumon.” All he did was run—more to the point, away from the fight. No matter that it had been at the behest of his partner, or that he had succeeded in bringing help, he had fled. “Without him, there would be no digivice.”

            “Baihumon didn’t help him digivolve,” Cotramon commented, coming through the door. Nor would anyone else help him digivolve again. Their fates were sealed, their lives forever altered. “When the first humans came, the Digimon that met them digivolved almost immediately. But there was still so much potential, they needed away to channel that energy.”

            No one knew exactly how the digivices had been created. It had been a closely guarded secret, known only to those humans and their partners. But, and Cotramon smiled as he patted the belt where he kept his first-aid kit, there were other ways to come across them.

            Four still existed. One of them was in the possession of Isaac Marx, who—in Cotramon’s opinion—had every right to own the contraption. Two existed in the archives, relics of the Liberation War, their owners long-since dead. The last had belonged to Rosemon, one of the Sovereignty, her partner vanished long ago. And it had now passed into his temporary ownership.

            The Emperor had summoned him, and had then surprised him with the offering. Rosemon had gladly given her consent, via their telecommunications network, stating that it was time for it to be put into service again. It felt warm to his touch, and vibrated happily in his pouch—almost as if it sensed its new owner’s presence.

            He grinned, blue eyes sparkling. Michael had never seen the Digimon so giddy. “So what’s the good word, then,” he asked the Digimon. He scooted over on the bed, making way for the compact reptile. “You’re in such a good mood. I take it that the Emperor has agreed to the council’s recommendation?”

            Cotramon shook his head. “Even better.” He lifted the flap on his pouch and pulled out the device, pear-shaped and the screen immediately flashing his information from the index. It beeped frantically. “He wants you to have this.”

            “Another digivice?” Michael asked incredulously. Where had that come from? Obviously there had been more than one human, but who was the partner? “Another Sovereign?” Cotramon nodded, holding it out to him.

            “Moreover,” the Digimon said, face suddenly solemn, “ _I_ want you to have it.” He sighed. Michael deserved it, had proven himself on three occasions now. Word had spread of his heroics three days ago, surprising the vast majority of the Digital World. It had won over many of those who witnessed it, and only one voice of opposition remained from the Sovereignty.

            The hybrid reached for the machine, wrapping his clawed fingers around it tightly. It too, felt warm to his touch, but had an oddly different quality than Isaac’s digivice. A sudden spark from the screen made him recoil, then he gasped as the machine transformed from an off-shade of white to a deep, fiery red.

            “Mine… did not do that…” Isaac muttered, scratching his head. His, the same off-shade of white merely shimmered as he took it out again. “I wonder if it means anything—have you ever seen anything like it before,” he asked, turning to Cotramon. From what he had learned, everything had meaning in the Digital World, from shapes and colors to the words they spoke.

            The reptile Digimon only confirmed his suspicions. “I’m sure it does,” he said. Though he had to confess, he had never seen anything like it before. The natural laws of the Digital World were much the same as Earth. Up was up, down was down, and inanimate objects did not suddenly change without a very good reason.

            As if things could get any weirder, he thought. The museum specimen had been white, its owner long-since passed away and his partner vanished. If all else failed, he supposed, they might consult the archives or Baihumon—whoever might shed some light on these marvelous machines. Despite the incredible attention to detail, however, Cotramon was not sure even the Sovereign knew all there was to know. The machines were a mystery even to those who built them.

            They would have to do it soon, he knew, and grinned once more remembering the real reason he had been summoned by the Emperor. The digivice was secondary. Michael looked at him, an eye cocked in an expression that wondered why he would break his normal, moody demeanor. “That reminds me of the good news,” he said.

            “Yes, what’s the good word?” Isaac asked. He glanced at Michael, trying to decide if he were well enough yet. It seemed Digimon were unique in their ability to heal themselves. Cotramon’s initial wounds were gone, as was the damage he sustained after he digivolved. Michael still bore scars from his first battle. And even now, after three days of rest, he looked wobbly.

            “If you’re feeling up to it, the Emperor has summoned us.” The Digimon noticed Isaac’s sidelong look at his partner, bringing up the point of Michael’s health. He seemed well enough, yes. Never mind the fact that he had blown himself up.

            Michael gawked at him, mouth open as he was about to speak. He remained that way for a few moments before closing it, and pursing his scaly lips into a frown. “Just what does he mean by ‘if I’m up to it?’” he asked, narrowing his eyes.

            Cotramon grinned again, hoping to gloss over the apprehensive look he and Isaac had shared. “That means that if I—as your attending physician—think you’re fit enough, the Emperor wishes to congratulate you personally.” And more. The frown on Michael’s face spoke volumes. There was more to this. Cotramon merely shrugged in reply and asked him to stand, forbidding Isaac from lending a helping hand.

            “No, he has to do it on his own. If he can stand on his own, it’s a good sign.” Michael did so, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and pushing up with his arms and tail. “Very good,” the Digimon smiled, genuinely pleased, then promptly gave Michael a hard shove. He staggered, shouted, but remained standing.

            “Hey, what gives!” he demanded, tail twitching in irritation. “That’s a hell of a bedside manner you have, _doc_!”

            Cotramon tilted his head to the left, giving him a crooked grin. “It’s called a bump test. If you can stay standing, you’re doing well.”  He made a note of the hybrid’s reflexes. They were almost back to normal—at least, whatever normal was for a hybrid. “If I had told you, it wouldn’t have been a surprise. Have to test your reflexes and your balance.”

            Michael glared at him, then sighed. Isaac snickered to himself and got his own jarring jolt from Michael. That would be a bruise tomorrow, the hybrid decided, seeing Isaac rub his shoulder. He turned back to Cotramon. “What next? Turn my head and cough?”

* * *

             He was not anything like Michael had expected. The hybrid had thought the Emperor might be something the likes of the Sovereignty: a huge, immense creature that could crush him with a flick of a claw. The Digimon that stood before him, however, resembled nothing of the titans that won the Liberation War. But his size belied the strength of his aura—something which even Isaac, as a human, could feel permeating from him.

            Boreamon stood only a head taller the Michael, quiet, his bright eyes staring inquisitively at the hybrid. He might, had the earthling thought of it, resembled something like a cross between a wolf and some other unidentifiable earth animal. But that was where similarities ended, his intelligence evident and his stature unmistakable by the vibrant blue cape he wore and the gold circlets adorning his wrists and crowning his head.

            So far, no one had spoken. Only Boreamon had moved, circling the trio to inspect them. When he had completed the circuit, he smiled. “Cotramon,” he said, laying a hand on the former assassin’s shoulder. Cotramon bowed his head. “You are looking well.”

            “Thank you, sire,” he said, unusually humble in Michael’s opinion. Cotramon lifted his eyes as soon as the Emperor’s hand left him, and turned to Michael and Isaac. “If you please, majesty, I would introduce my companions.” Boreamon nodded benignly. “My partner, and friend, Michael Delancy.”

            “Ah! Yes!” the Emperor exclaimed.

            He was almost over-enthusiastic, it seemed. Someone so renowned for his wisdom seemed oddly at ease around what he thought would be his archenemy. Michael could hardly believe how he was chattering away so casually, as if no bad blood had existed between him and that whom he had wished to exterminate. Then again, Michael thought, glancing over at his Digimon partner, no bad blood did exist. Not anymore.

            “I was relieved to hear that your recovery was going so well,” Boreamon was saying, gesturing emphatically. Michael shook his head, clearing his thoughts to follow what the royal had been talking about. “When Baihumon,” and he waved grandly at the Sovereign behind him, “told me that you had risked your life to stop the attack on the palace, I could hardly believe my ears! You have earned my gratitude, and the right to call yourself a Digimon.”

            Wait? What? The _right_ to call himself a Digimon… “What was I before then?” he asked, frowning, and bringing the Emperor’s train of thought to a grinding halt. Michael glared back, crossing his arms and meeting Boreamon’s eyes directly. “Just some lab experiment, or merely a human?”

            Cotramon clenched his teeth, squeezing the hybrid’s arm in an attempt to shush him. Michael jerked his arm free, undaunted, as the Emperor stood waiting expectantly for Michael to continue. “I’ve been waiting since I got here to ask what right you or the Sovereigns have to judge me when you’re the ones who are responsible for this whole mess. Azulongmon wanted my life, and the rest decided just to take my home and my humanity instead.

            “And in the meanwhile I’ve nearly gotten myself killed trying to save all of you who wanted nothing more than to kill me in the first place. So tell me, your _highness_ , what more do you want from me?”

            The silence that followed was absolute, as if the whole company held their breath, waiting for a hammer to fall. No one in Cotramon’s memory had spoken to the Emperor with such abandon and brutal honesty. Even those Digimon who served on the Sovereign council kept their words in check with the monarch. And there stood Michael, scowling, with eyes that not only expected an answer, but demanded it.

            Certainly he deserved it though, having had his entire life interrupted. Then he had been thrust into mortal combat on three occasions in the span of only a few days, had his life put on trial for crimes he had nothing to do with, and faced imprisonment in a world he had never seen. Now, face to face with the one Digimon that could possibly offer justification for these actions, Michael demanded just that.

            So there was the question on everyone’s mind. What would Boreamon say? Baihumon remained expressionless, belying the intense emotions playing within his mind: Curiosity as to the Emperor’s response, anger at Michael’s tirade against them, and compassion for the hybrid’s circumstances. He too had been thrown into the chaos of war—his partner had been young, but brave, much like Michael.

            Isaac only held firmly to his partner’s shoulder, backing him with the same penetrating stare, steely eyes digging holes into the Emperor’s will. To his understanding, Earth itself was at stake in these proceedings. Not only his partner, and friend, but his family and the lives of all those he knew back home hinged on what happened.

            Tank had been adamant that Earth was next on his master’s list of conquered territories. And what he knew from the history he picked up, the Enemy was not bent on ruling, but entirely destroying anything that was not of use to him. Humans, in that sense, were utterly defenseless. And even if the Digimon let them return to Earth, there would still be no stopping the coming tide. It depended on a partnership greater than just him and Michael.

            There they stood, in the quiet, cavernous space of the palace’s throne room. Only an instant had passed, but to Michael it felt like an eternity. The thoughts doubtlessly racing through the minds of others registered in him, and he wondered if he had made a mistake. What had he to lose, though?

            That moment passed, and Boreamon collected himself, gathering his thoughts to speak. He opened his mouth, then paused, and sighed. “We owe you a debt of gratitude, Michael Delancy. And the same gratitude to your two partners.” He nodded to each of them in turn, more solemn now. “We also owe you an explanation. Unfortunately, we have none that would even begin to justify the tribulations you have experienced. And for that, I am deeply sorry.

            “You owe us nothing, and you have given more than we had any right to expect. Azulongmon’s actions were especially detestable in the light of last week’s attack.” He turned, cape billowing, and paced the floor between them and Baihumon. How could he dare ask anything more when the hybrid had indeed given everything. He had been willing to fight, and to die, for his two partners. And by consequence, he had been willing to give his life for the Empire.

            Now Boreamon faced the daunting task of asking still more. But the hybrid, Michael, as the humans had named him, deserved a choice this time. “I must ask more of you,” he said quietly. “You know as well as I do that the Enemy will return soon, and claim this world as his own. We are a powerful people when we are fully evolved. But our children, too small yet to even be considered rookies, are not able to fight. Your world may already be endangered, but I ask that you take my request to your leaders, to ask for sanctuary for our smallest.”

            He understood. When the Enemy came, the game would be kill-or-be-killed. Tank had only been a small sampling of what might happen, if the Enemy should succeed. His involvement had already put Earth in the crosshairs. “If I said no, nothing would stand in his way of my home. And I’m not about to abandon the one Digimon who has been with me from the beginning. I’ll do it as long as Cotramon is willing to come too. And Isaac has to be willing. The three of us are your alliance’s best bet.”

            Boreamon nodded. “What say the two of you then? Isaac, it is your home, so I expect you to volunteer.” The human nodded at once, firmly, adding that he was ready as ever to make good with his digivice. “But Cotramon, you are a Digimon. Asking you to leave your home again to take on this mission is grossly unfair. But you are needed, and I ask you to consider it.”

            Cotramon smiled, his eyeteeth glinting sharply in the afternoon sunlight. “You hardly have to ask, your majesty. Michael is my partner, and I would not abandon him for anything. He is my friend, and if he needs me, then I am always willing to help him.”

            That was it then; they had made a decision. Boreamon’s relief did not show externally. But he ushered them out, hurriedly, suggesting that they leave at morning’s first light. The gate which led home had switched positions, as it did periodically. Its new location had appeared in Yggdrasil, several days’ journey from Anshar Proper.

            “Go, then, with my thanks and all of our hopes.”

_Fin_


	11. The Tragedy of Yggdrassil

            Neither he, nor Cotramon had much to pack in the way of personal items. Cotramon, aside from his first-aid kit, had little need for possessions. He, when asked about it, had disclosed that his home was not in Anshar, but a plane three tiers below their current location called Kishar. Thus, all of his personal memorabilia was there. Michael faced a similar problem, in that all of his own _stuff_ remained in the human world, haphazardly organized in his bedroom. He had not been able to pack anything at all.

            Armed with only a duffle bag, he had been given some suitable attire for his transformed body—something he would be hard pressed to find on Earth. So it was that Cotramon and Isaac—whom purposely had very little to stow—watched him carefully folding various articles of clothing and placing it in his sack.

            “We’re going to make one hell of an impression,” he said absentmindedly. How quickly he had gone from reviled enemy to renowned hero boggled his mind. And now he was an ambassador to Earth. What had he gotten into? He felt like he had tripped and fallen down the rabbit hole. Now Wonderland was threatening to eat him alive.

            Cotramon, perched on the bed next to him, shrugged his shoulders. As far as he was concerned, Michael had already made a hell of an impression. He had transformed more than he knew. And the hybrid had changed him as well, he mused. “That’s why we have Isaac. He’s our liaison to the human world. He’ll introduce us, and we’ll conduct our business.”

            “Sanctuary!” Isaac chimed in a mock accent.

            Michael rolled his eyes, still dubious as to the probable success of their latest task. “What makes you think they’ll even give us a chance? Humans don’t like diversity.” Most humans anyway. They spoke of equality and fundamental rights—but he had never seen it put to the test like this before. They called them “human” rights. The very phrase spoke to him volumes about the mindset of the human race.

            Tank’s words came to mind—meaningless allies, he had called them. Somehow, he did not think that was quite what Tank had meant. Regardless, though, he might have been right after all, if Earth jumped to the wrong conclusions. Michael supposed that they all had misgivings. He still felt very wary of the Digimon, even though Cotramon had grown on him. If he were a representative of his home, he could understand well the reservations that the Sovereignty felt. He sighed and nodded toward Isaac. His human partner was a better ambassador than he would ever be.

            “We just have to hope that we’ll encounter people like Isaac,” Cotramon told him, nodding toward the human. “Like you, he’s a good man. People—humans and Digimon—lead by example. And when they see how well the three of us interact, they will believe.”

            “I wish I had your confidence.”

* * *

          They were heading back to the human world? Millenniumon puzzled over this, curious as to their route. Back to the human world, but not through the gate in Anshar? Through the forests of Yggdrassil, the forest plane, and to a point of entry that would lead them to where? He pulled up a chart—the screen casting an eerie glow in his dimly lit chambers.

            There was something there. He remembered a time when the forest plane had once been a paradise. But more than that, he felt something familiar stir within him at the mere thought of Yggdrassil. He had only been through in passing, though. It had been stripped bare by his Master—a burned down shadow of its former glory. What, though, was so important about that plane?

            He grunted, trying to shake the thought from his head. It would not do to be distracted. Save your ponderings for later, he chided himself. The task at hand was of upmost importance—though why it had been entrusted to him, he could not know. Apocalymon was more apt to choose agents than he. Millenniumon was no tactician; he was a scientist, a thinker. Let the warrior decide which agent to retrieve the hybrid.

            He would have just assumed let him go. The Master knew that. He knew everything. The chart listed thousands of his drones—those who had been crushed and bent into the will of his Master. The process had taken time to perfect. When the Black Diamond had come into power, his armies were volunteers, believing they were following a benevolent being who wanted to end the corruption of the last Empire.

            Millenniumon had willingly joined, putting his mind to work, trusting that he was doing the right thing. But by the end of it, his will had become as corrupted as his drones—though still free. He had experimented on countless Digimon, finally finding the perfect concoction of torture, psychology and science to produce unwavering loyalty and immunity to the fleshly failings of pain and passion.

            Then the armies of the Enemy darkened the Digital World, laying waste to lands like Yggdrassil, stripping it of any resources to feed his industrial machine. Free Digimon were made into slaves, working weary hours, nearly to their deaths. Only necessity kept them alive. And a futile hope of ever achieving freedom.

            He would have done anything to correct his mistake. The Master knew it. Millenniumon growled softly to himself, understanding why he had been tasked with this. It was punishment for his own hopes of freedom. If he failed, he would be punished in even greater amounts—a physical torture he tried not to think about. If he succeeded in retrieving the hybrid, he would be sacrificing the hopes of anyone who would resist the Enemy.

            Only two options remained then.

* * *

          The gate that lead to Yggdrasil sat squarely in the middle of the plane’s capital city. Following tradition, it had been named Yggdrasil Proper. Neither of the two earthlings had seen anything yet so remarkable as a city made entirely from a single tree. True to its mythological roots, the city seemed to hold the weight of the world in its branches. Buildings, shops, homes, avenues and corridors had been hewed out of branches and roots. And the trunk itself made up a tower that dwarfed any of the so-called skyscrapers of earth.

            “Ebonwumon makes his residence at the top of the tree,” Cotramon remarked, nodding to the lofty foliage above. He took a deep breath, enjoying the cool, moist air. No one knew quite how the tree had grown to be so large, though the local folklore had it that great Digimon spirits had caused the tree to grow and take root, providing a home to a new generation of wandering Digimon. The shadow guardians, they were called—spirits of the elements themselves, and protectors of the Digital World, ancient and mysterious.

            “There’s no basis in fact, for those tales though,” Cotramon appended, sighing as though he wished otherwise. They might have helped restore the lands that had been destroyed. He had traveled through Yggdrassil before, during the war, and had seen the scores of acres lost to the industrial machine of the Enemy. At last report though, the empire had been making progress in restoring what was lost—albeit slow.

            “Earth has that in common,” Isaac commented.

            _Huh?_ Cotramon had not considered that. But yes, Earth must have been through its own wars throughout the years. Of course he knew nothing of human history. It only made sense, though, that humans would wage war over territory and resources. Maybe they fought over petty differences in ideology, like the Clan Wars, where race, religion and politics killed tens of thousands. He only hoped that there was more to it than that.

            Never he mind it, however. They were nearing the city gate. Unlike Anshar, Yggdrassil boasted a wall, much like that of the Emperor’s palace. Except instead of reinforced stonework, the gate, bastions and walls sprung naturally from the main tree, made of ironwood. Most Digimon knew of the digi-chrome ore beneath the lands of this plane, and left it alone, as the trees absorbed it, and made for sure construction and habitation.

            “How did the Enemy not take over this city?” Isaac asked as they approached the wall. As large as it was—higher than the palace and likely twice as thick—it was still only a wooden defense. Sure it made for an impressive entrance, but a city made of wood should have burned during a war as horrific as Cotramon said. “You said he tried.”

            “And succeeded,” the Digimon replied. “He took the city during his rise, and held the plane until the resistance came and freed it. He failed to realize the value of the city and left only a small garrison to guard it.” For that, he was thankful. “When he finally did realize the advantage, he tried several times to take Yggdrassil and the city proper back.”

            Isaac nodded. Michael humphed and crossed his arms. All this talk about the Enemy… Why do they keep bringing it up? Not to remind him, of course. But all the same, it seemed like everyone was staring at him. And the more they talked about _him_ , the more people focused on Michael. “Can we stow it for a while?”

            Isaac and Cotramon paused with raised eyebrows. “You’re not interested in history, are you?” Isaac asked. They would need all the information they could gather to persuade humanity to help the Digimon. “They say those who don’t learn from…”

            “Spare me,” Michael interrupted, a much more noticeable growl in his voice than usual. “I’ve heard the rhetoric before. I had Mr. Sebo for history, same as you.” He walked past them, up to the gate and turned back. “Well? Are we going or not?”

            The human, taken aback, pursed his lips and frowned.

            “Look,” Michael snapped, “I just want to draw as little attention to ourselves as possible.” He stuck a clawed finger out at the wandering passers-by, many of them sheepishly glancing away. They knew who he was. If the evidence of a human and a full-blooded Digimon were not enough to convince them, his small frame and poorly accented “growlish” were. “The more we yack and gab instead of making progress, the more likely we are to be attacked again.”

            Isaac could admit it was a valid point. But both he and Cotramon knew better than to think that was his sole reason for objecting to their “gabbing” and “yacking.” Somehow he wondered if even Michael knew exactly what he was feeling. Their Digimon guide, however, merely shrugged it off and beckoned for the guards to open the gate for their intended egress.

            The human had tried to understand his partner. There was a bond there—a deep connection that he intended to develop. As odd as Michael was, Isaac could not help but think of the hybrid a miracle—both in his own life and as a fulfillment of the Digital World’s needs. He could never have imagined himself going on an adventure like this. And what might his life had been like otherwise? He saw himself sitting at a desk, in an office cubicle, bored out of his mind contemplating some meaningless procedural question.

            But as for interpreting the moods of a Digimon hybrid, he was at a loss. If Michael refused to talk to him—despite his offer of a friendly ear—then that sealed the conversation shut. He would just have to be patient. That was much easier than trying to fight a war, he thought. He had grown up learning patience. Studiousness, hard work, and discipline in his efforts: all these had gained him an appreciation for the art of waiting.

            Even now, he thought, he was waiting. Waiting for something to happen, the same sensation he had felt when he first saw Michael change, as if lightning were going to strike again. He glanced about him, aware of the broad highway that lead from the city gates out into the wilds of Yggdrassil, but also of a sense of being watched, and waited upon.

            Maybe it was just him? Though, as they walked in silence, treading upon the finely graveled road, Cotramon seemed more agitated than normal as well. Even Michael, seemed to have changed temperaments, from annoyed to alert. He pushed in closer to the others, and whispered, “I think there’s something out here with us.”

            Cotramon nodded. “It’s an agent of the enemy,” he said, suppressing a shudder. It would not attack now, though. Not in such close proximity to the plane’s capital. This Digimon, more powerful than the Devidramon that had attacked them, was also far more intelligent. “He’s being directly controlled by someone. I’m not sure how.”

            “Should we digivolve, then,” Michael asked, trying to shake off the nervousness he felt. There was something else out there too, somewhere. Someone watched him, and not an agent of the Enemy. It was intelligent, and a powerful; it felt strangely inorganic to him. Not empty, as Tank felt, but certainly not like a normal Digimon. “I don’t like this.”

            “We can’t let on that we sense it,” Cotramon told them both. Although, at this point, he was sure their foe knew it. But if they were to fight, he wanted to make sure it would be in a more advantageous spot than the middle of a protected forest. “And we can’t let it destroy any more of this plane.”

            The war had seen plenty of that. Flame-resistant as ironwood was, the Enemy had found a way to burn it to the ground. They would be upon the deforested zone soon, any minute in fact. “If we can keep him in the open, we should be fine. I should warn you, though, where I’m thinking is not a pretty sight.”

            “What happened?” Isaac asked him. “You said he tried to take the plane back, but why?” As far as he could tell, there was nothing special about the plane but the forest. A good source of oxygen, firewood, and a few major metropolitan areas, sure. But nothing exceptional.

            “Ore,” he replied simply. “There is digi-chrome ore under this entire plane. The walls of the city and the forest itself have somehow metabolized it. But the Enemy only realized that when we began to use the ironwood as armor. Flame resistant, hard as steel, but light weight.” He grimaced, and clenched his fists. The devastation the war caused still struck him violently. “He still found a way to burn it all to the ground, then mined the ore for his own purposes.”

            So then it would not grow back—at least not without a miracle. And when it did, the trees would be simple wood, not the metal-infused giants that surrounded them now. Then, abruptly, there it was, glaring and black. The deforested zone nearly sucked the breath out of Isaac and Michael—the ugliness of it marring such a luscious green backdrop for as far as their eyes could see. They gazed in awe of the stripped and barren landscape, pitted and cratered like a desolate moon.

            Michael suddenly felt very lonely, a solitary figure in an ocean of darkness. Even his partners, whom he knew he could count on, seemed distant. How could they understand? He had a taint on him, like a foul stench that nothing could wash away. The bleakness around him, even if he had not directly caused it, was still on his hands. He could not explain it, did not even want to try. But because the Enemy had caused this, and so much more misery—and he thought of the quarter million lights blinking out of existence in Ea—he, too, was responsible.

            Nothing, no one, could help him. He had to redeem himself. The red of his scales seemed appropriate now, with the blood of so many having been spilled in the name of freedom. His knees shook, then buckled and he fell to the ashen ground. “I can’t let you do this,” he said, voice shaking, growling, almost a moan. “This is my responsibility. He’s out for me, and no one else is going to suffer because of me.”

            “Michael,” Cotramon interposed softly, kneeling, breaking the hybrid’s train of thought. “I know what’s really bothering you. Isaac knows it too. And I can’t digivolve if you can’t work through it.” Anger, worry—the man was a pendulum—then back to that fiery confidence like when he questioned the Sovereignty. When his partners were there, Michael could do anything. But alone, he was frightened as a freshly hatched Digimon. And Michael, despite the ongoing presence of he and Isaac, felt inexplicably alone. “We’re here for you.”

            Isaac lowered himself to the ground, then clasped his partner’s shoulder. Michael raised his head and stared through teary eyes. “I can’t imagine what you’re feeling right now,” the human told him. “But I do know that you are not responsible for _this._ I know you saved my life, and the lives of another million or so Digimon when you took on a mega. I know you’re about to fight again to save even more lives.” He lifted Michael off the ground and stood him up straight. “And I know that Cotramon and I will not leave you. No matter where you are, you’re not alone.”

            “Do you also know you’re about to die?” an electric voice buzzed. Isaac jerked his head around and saw nothing. Cotramon barely caught the Digimon out of the corner of his eye, it had moved so fast. “My master wishes to congratulate you on surviving his assassin. Alas, though, it will be a short-lived congratulation.” Michael saw it first, a small Digimon, about the size of his head, masked in dull iron, floating inexplicably three feet off the ground. Its mouth did not move when it spoke. “You are right in your assumption,” it said. “I am not the Digimon you see, merely its puppeteer.”

            “Then who are you?” Michael demanded.

            He sensed malevolence behind their enemy, the crooked smile of a psychopath about to engage in his favorite pastime. “I am the Destroyer of Worlds,” it said. “All of this grand sight before you is my doing. I am Apocalymon.”

            Cotramon brought up his arms instantly, eyes narrowing, hands fisted. Michael could almost see his skin crawl at the name—Destroyer of Worlds—and heard the low, menacing growl emanating from his clenched teeth. He had seen it before, heard the anger, back in that cafeteria where they had first met. This was no mere enemy to be dealt with, but a personal demon to be slain—the deaths and marred landscape to be avenged.

            The green-scaled Digimon turned and met his partner’s gaze. “You aren’t responsible for this. _He_ is.” Yes, a monster and a man without conscience had done it. He would make sure that _it_ would pay—and pay with its life. He felt the urge to howl, like a mindless beast, in his frustration. Apocalymon would pay, but the here and now dictated that it would not be that day. “This—this coward!—hasn’t even the courage to come himself. He sends a mindless drone to do his masters bidding!”

            “Ha!” rang the metallic voice behind the mask. “I? A coward, you say? I, who lead countless armies into battle?” He chuckled, and for a moment, Cotramon thought he might have had a soul. Then, with unfeigned malice, the voice of Apocalymon continued. “I remember _you_ ,” he said to Cotramon.

            The Digimon’s eyes widened, angry tears welling in them. How could he remember? Pyromon had engaged him point-blank, leaving no one any time for contemplation, let alone a chance to take in the presence of such a minor Digimon like himself. He had begged, pleaded, all but bound his superior to the stretcher, trying to prevent a catastrophe. All to no avail, though, as Pyromon had insisted it was his duty, that he was powerful enough to keep the Destroyer of Worlds at bay.

            “Oh yes,” said the Destroyer. And he laughed again, derisive, contemptuously at the little green medic. “Your hero, the beloved of the Digital World, had been injured in a previous engagement and managed to escape with his life.” His tone spoke of annoyance; his error had been a blemish on a spotless record of annihilation. “I had to correct that mistake—my Master wished it.”

            Yes, Cotramon remembered perfectly that day. The injured general had improved a great deal, well enough to be moved and finish his recovery away from the battlefield. He had been the primary physician assigned, and when the word came to evacuate, he had ordered Pyromon out, first and foremost, among the injured. How could the rebellion afford to lose their most valued and powerful fighter?

            “I came,” continued the jarring, unnatural voice. “Your encampment, so pathetic, would have been easy to destroy were it not for him. It, however, was only a secondary objective. Your general was the target I moved against. I see my oversight has come back to haunt me.”

            “He saved us all,” Cotramon whispered. “You! You burned everything in sight, though!” This time it would stop, nothing would burn. Now he could feel a flame inside him begin to grow, to set ablaze. He had known this feeling before, back in Anshar, the night the Devidramon attacked them.

            More intensity, though… More power. He almost felt as if he were glowing from the immensity of might flowing through his body. Michael, next to him, grim-faced, had the same revelation. From Isaac, it flowed into Michael and from there poured into Cotramon—a chain of energy from the depths of their three souls, now intertwined.

            _“Pyromon digivolve too…”_

_“Cotramon digivolve too…”_

Isaac felt himself blown back, landing with a thud on the charred ground, half blinded by the accompanying flash of light. Then, again he was blown head over heels, a brighter, mightier illumination outshining anything he had ever seen before. Michael’s light faded, and Helmdramon stood, poised for battle. But Cotramon only grew more overpowering.

            _“Huntmon digivolve too…”_

My God, Isaac thought, jaw dropping. Michael, in his champion form, broke down and backed away from the overarching dominance his partner displayed. What stood there next was nothing short of heroic. Gleaming from the waste up was manlike, with the muzzle and muscles of a draconic Digimon. Black scales covered his body, plated armor protecting his chest, and a mighty sword strapped to his back. Below, four clawed feet dug into the ground, ready to charge forward into battle, as if it were one man against ten thousand.

            _“Gideomon!”_ he announced, proudly. Then he brought his ire-filled gaze down on the puppet Digimon. _“Mighty Cleave!”_ and he swung his sword.

_Fin_


	12. Kai

                “Mighty Cleave!” Cotramon, or now Gideomon, shouted, swinging his sword in a downward arc toward the masked Digimon puppet. There was a spark, and the sound of metal clanging against metal as his foe brought up a wicked looking katana, still half sheathed, then bounced back from the attack, preparing a counter strike.

            He swiped once, a blood-red arc slicing through the air toward Gideomon. The four-legged Digimon reared up on his hind legs, letting the blast catch his chest armor, leaving a long gash, but no serious damage. Then he came down, front claws bared and swiping at his enemy. He struck hard, sending the Digimon spinning.

            “You fight well, for a medic,” it said, its mechanical voice buzzing. “I see the Sovereignty has trained you in the martial skills. What a shame you could not help your patient, all those years ago.” Another flash of his katana, crimson energy, and Gideomon leapt out of the way, digging into the blackened earth to gain purchase.

            “I will dispense with you shortly,” Apocalymon taunted. “Then with the human.” The puppet’s gaze fell intently on Isaac, a wicked shine to them. “Then, as my master has requested, I will bring the hybrid to him. You will have been powerless again.”

            The ultimate’s eyes flashed in anger, then in worry. Apocalymon had unsheathed his puppet’s sword again, this time aimed at Isaac. “Run,” he shouted, raising his own weapon high into the air. The human did so, just as Gideomon thrust the blade down again, sinking it into the ground. “ _Shadow Quake!_ ” The earth shook as a mass of black fire spewed from the upheaved terrain.

* * *

          Isaac ducked behind a boulder, narrowly avoiding the earth shaking attack, clutching his digivice in as tight a grip as he could muster. It quivered in his hands, beeping and screeching anxiously. Michael in his digivolved form knelt next to him. “There’s still another Digimon out there,” he said, glancing to his left.

            “Another one of them,” Isaac asked, tapping out commands on his digivice. The hologram came up of Gideomon’s foe, running through in digi-code. Isaac groaned. “I can’t get this thing to work—it keeps coming up in that other language!”

            “Never mind that,” Michael told him. He closed his eyes, and took a deep breath, smelling the cold, barren landscape. Whatever the creature was, it felt organic, but not entirely—like parts of it had been stripped from it and sewn on again. He shuddered and opened his eyes, turning away from Isaac. “You keep working on getting a reading on these things.”

            The human nodded, pressing buttons, furiously trying to get the digivice to read in English. There came a flash from the screen and the holographic display blinked off and then back on. “Got it!” Isaac shouted, hoping either of the Digimon heard him. “Tekkamon, ultimate. He’s fast, you guys!”

            “Great,” Michael grunted. “Now what about the _other_ guy?” Where was he? _What_ was he? It felt as if it were somehow less organic—alive for certain, but in some indescribable way artificial. What was it waiting for, then? “I don’t think it’s going to show up on that…”

            “I see it,” Isaac shouted, pointing to a darkly wooded area. A pair of acid eyes glinted in the sunlight. There it sat, watching through narrow eyes before receding back into the shadows.  “Just behind the tree-line. It isn’t registering as a Digimon, though. I—I don’t know what it is.”

            The momentary movement was just enough for Michael to catch sight of it himself. “I’ve got ‘em,” he growled, before making a break for the cover of the wood. The fiery champion dove out from behind the cluster of boulders, narrowly avoiding a swipe from Apocalymon’s remotely controlled Digimon, before rolling to his feet and dashing off toward the wood.

            The sounds of battle faded behind him, a nervous quiet taking over. The creature was there, close and watching—almost waiting. But for what, Michael did not know. Then he turned, suddenly, at the breaking of a branch.

            The thing—he could scarcely believe it was a Digimon—was massive. Twice as tall, it was a confabulation of parts, like Frankenstein’s monster, scavenged and sewn together. Some of the parts, Michael recognized: its wings came from Airdamon and Angemon—whom he had seen as guards at the palace—and its body looked like it belonged to Greymon. Its four arms, furred legs, and its tail were unfamiliar.

            Whatever it was, he decided, it did not look friendly. He wondered if it were another one of the Enemy’s agents. But it did not attack—maybe it was just there to monitor Apocalymon’s progress? Strange, though, Michael thought, looking into its acid-yellow eyes. It seemed built for battle, and yet he thought he detected the glimmer of intelligence beneath its beastly exterior.

            “You’ve been following us for hours,” Michael accused. “Are you just watching until we’re killed, or were you waiting for the right moment to do it yourself?

            Then, it did the last thing that Michael expected. “I know who and what you are,” the monster declared, staring him straight in the eye. The hybrid took a step back, surprised, though he should not have been. “You and I are products of the same laboratory, the same genius. And we have the same goal.”

            Michael growled, now more afraid than anything. This was a creation of the Enemy—and it spoke as if they were almost related. “You don’t know anything!” he shouted, bringing his fists to the ready. “I’m nothing like you creeps… And I won’t let you destroy the Digital World! _Nova Punch!_ ”

* * *

          Gideomon risked a glance at his partner, wondering where he had dashed off to in such a hurry. He turned just in time to counter another strike from the Destroyer’s weapon, bringing his sword up mere inches from his muzzle. Then a flash of flame lit up the forest to his left.

            Michael’s attack caught the attention of Apocalymon, leaving him distracted long enough for Gideomon get close. The four-legged Digimon raised his sword high, rearing up on his hind legs for extra leverage. “ _Mighty Cleave!_ ” he shouted, bringing it to bear, just as the Tekkamon-puppet raised his katana to oppose him. The force of Gideomon’s attack overpowered the Destroyer, though, and the katana shattered.

            “You think you can take us down?” Gideomon roared angrily. “You aren’t strong enough. You never were.” He shifted his sword again, ready to swipe again. “You never will be again! _Mighty Cleave!_ ” The impact shattered the puppet’s mask, revealing a deformed, mutilated face underneath.

            Hideous creature, Gideomon thought, looking upon the glazed over eyes and the scarred visage. What had they done to him? Then he stepped back as the creature’s vacant expression focused on him and twisted into a cruel, toothless smile.

            “I’m not done yet,” it whispered, then threw its fist into the ultimate’s face. “This drone may not be powerful,” Apocalymon said gleefully, “but it is fast. Faster than you could ever hope to be.” He zipped past Gideomon, and turned in midair, jabbing at the partner’s back with clawed fingers. “If need be, I will strip you bare, piece by piece.”

            The sudden sting caused him to drop his blade as he tried desperately to grab at the puppet. It assailed him on all sides, weaving and dodging every attempt to grab at it. He bucked wildly, trying to dislodge it when it grabbed hold and began ripping at him, and tearing through his armor. “Your broken body will adorn my castle in the new world order.”

            Gideomon reared onto his hind legs, slamming his back into the nearest boulder he could find. Isaac heard a bone-sickening crunch as the creature had its body crushed against his hiding place. Still, though, it had its claws dug deep in the ultimate’s back, though it stopped moving. It had given taur-ish Digimon enough time to grab it and heave it forward to the ground. He retrieved his blade.

            It was pathetic now—merely a mangled, twitching remnant of a Digimon. The Destroyer refused to release control of his marionette, though, even as it was about to be destroyed. “You will die soon enough,” it said, the remote voice buzzing now with static. “You and all who oppose the Black Diamond will—”

            “ _Mighty Cleave!_ ” With a downward thrust of his sword, Gideomon ceased the transmission and the corpse disintegrated instantly.

* * *

          The creature sidestepped Michael’s attack with an ease that bordered on practiced. The sheer size and bulk of him made him seem sluggish. But that soon proved false as the creature was remarkably fast. It moved with a rapidity that Michael could not hope to match in his champion form. Still, he had to wipe out any trace of the Enemy, regardless of the personal risks.

            He lunged desperately at the entity, charging his attack again. “ _Blindside Inferno!_ ” This time it did not dodge, but rather grabbed him with one of its multitudinous arms, and threw him to the forest floor. The hybrid picked himself up, thankful for the soft bedding of leaves and mulch that carpeted the ground.

            It spoke again, in clear English, though heavily accented by a growl. “You misunderstand, hybrid. I’m not here to fight _you_.” He stood, arms outstretched, open and making itself vulnerable to attack. Though Michael dared not try that again—he doubted if he could even leave a scratch on it.

            It? Why did Michael think that? He—and the hybrid gulped—was clearly intelligent. And not in the same fashion as Tank had been. This seemed to be a creature of reason rather than passion. “What—” he swallowed against a dry throat—“what do you want, then? The Enemy created you to destroy me, didn’t he?”

            It rumbled a derisive, barking laugh at him. “You presume too much. I am no creation of _his,_ ” the creature declared. “I fought and bled to defeat him. Even after capture—after the horrors and indignities heaped upon me—I worked to that end. Do not confuse me with the mindless beasts or the willing puppets which do his bidding,” he growled, his tone taking on the attribute of a long-suffered rage.

            “If I were one such creature, I would have destroyed you hours ago, while you still traipsed through the forest. Well before you or your companions would have ever noticed me.” Now he sat, folding his spindly arms across his chest. “You already surmised that, hybrid.”

            Michael’s mouth hung agape. How long had this thing been following them? Could he really be as powerful as he boasted? Thinking back to the battle in Anshar, he was quite sure this Frankenstein’s monster could have done exactly as it said. Michael coughed once, then cleared his throat of dust. “What—or rather _who_ —are you?”

            “I am Chimeramon,” he said.

            Michael propped himself up against a rock and took a long look at the Digimon. Despite appearances, and the power that radiated from him, it belied the true intentions of the Chimeramon. No—like Michael, this creature was not one of the vile remnants of the Black Diamond. The hybrid breathed a sigh of relief and suddenly found that his parched throat was no longer so dry.

            “If it wasn’t the Enemy who created you,” Michael asked, “then who was it?” All the time he had been in the Digital World, the Digimon had told him that anything he encountered that held any trace of that scourge was evil—that it should be eradicated on sight. There had to be more to it than that. “Who are you?”

            “You may call me Kai…” he hesitated. “That was my name before I was captured—or rescued, depending on your perspective. It wasn’t the Enemy, but the scientific genius behind him, which created the likes of us.” Kai gestured toward Michael with one claw. “You see, Millenniumon found me nearly dead, and took me back to his lab. I was a species of Greymon.”

            He lifted his helmeted head toward the sky, yellow eyes narrowing into slits in the light. “You see, in order to save my life, he took the relevant parts of the Enemy’s minions—those mindless creatures that served as his army—and grafted them onto me. Their digital code is stored in me, grafted and blended with my own. Millenniumon was able to convince the Enemy that this process would lead to a breakthrough, which would fulfill _his_ ultimate goal.”

            Michael nodded, comprehending. Everything the Sovereignty had hoped he would be, the Enemy had hoped for the same. He had wanted a soldier, tinged with his own genetic materials, to destroy the rebellion entirely. “He wanted a weapon. Instead the Sovereignty got me.”

            Kai humphed at him, contemptuously. “You were never supposed to exist at all. At the battle of Anshar, when we knew the city walls would fall, we sabotaged the Clone Works. If the Enemy had activated it then, it would have destroyed him and the entire city…” He sighed. In retrospect, that might have gone too far. But they had needed to make sure that the Enemy would be destroyed! Even if it meant sacrificing both armies and themselves in the process!

            No one should have ever been able to use that monstrosity. “The Sovereignty were fools. Yet in their foolishness they somehow deactivated the bomb, and managed to clear the genetic code from the computer memory and input their own whims.”

            “They told me that part,” Michael said, still unsure as to how he felt on the matter. The melancholy he had felt on leaving Yggdrassil returned to him suddenly. “I already know that I’m an accident. How did that data get infused into human DNA though?”

            Kai leaned forward and looked down at him, as though he were under a magnifying glass. “I don’t even think Millenniumon could tell you that. All I know is that we never meant to create you. When I heard rumors that a hybrid had been created, I nearly came out of my exile to exterminate you myself. But then I heard of your battle against Tank—that treacherous black shell of a man—and that you had taken the form of General Pyromon… Even now I can sense the untapped potential in you.”

            Untapped potential? Was he kidding? In every battle he had fought he had barely come out alive, let alone victorious. Tank had gotten away, the palace nearly destroyed—twice!—and Cotramon had been beaten to a pulp because of him, twice!

            “I think you might have been mistaken in that,” Michael suggested, looking at his feet. He had always been average, even as a human. He was a C-student, with no outside interests in sports or the arts. As a Digimon he was average, albeit unique in his origins. Unconsciously his tail curled and uncurled around one wrist. “I’m not a fighter or anything like that.”

            “Are you sure about that?” Kai asked, raising an eyebrow. “If you weren’t, would everyone have been so keen on seeing you captured, killed or recruited?” This kid was the center of the Digital World and had no clue. The Chimeramon laughed to himself and sighed. “I will make you a deal. You let me join you—you’re headed back to the Human World, correct?”

            Michael frowned, looking up at the great beast. “Yeah,” he said, trailing off. “But what do I get out of it, besides another monster following me around? As if I hadn’t hit my weird quota before all this…”

            Kai smiled. “I will teach you to fight, and I will teach your human to be more affective.” The human was an all-or-nothing type. Word of his involvement with each battle had not escaped the Chimeramon’s attention either. “The two of you, along with that Digimon, could be a powerful combination. I will confess, though, I have an ulterior motive,” he said. “Millenniumon saved my life, and then freed me from the Enemy’s clutches. I owe him the same.”

            The hybrid nodded slowly. Isaac had saved him, and then Cotramon had done the same. He felt the same as Kai—that he owed his two partners the very same. And they had stood with him when no one else would, against the terrorizing sight of the Sovereignty and their power, and against common sense. He knew the emotions playing inside his new ally’s mind.

            “I can’t speak for the others,” Michael told him, “but if only to help your friend, you can come.” They would understand. After all, that was the foundation on which this triad had been built: crazy idealism. He found himself nodding again, liking the idea more and more. “Who knows? Maybe you’ll like Earth?”

  _Fin_


	13. The Long Road Home

            The telephone rang. Once, twice, and three times before Eugene Delancy grabbed the receiver. He was exhausted, his life collapsing around him. Weeks had passed since Michael had disappeared—vanished, with unconfirmed reports of monsters as the only clue. Officially, the police said, it was a gas explosion. But there was no evidence. No scorch marks, no burnt bodies, no remains of any sort had turned up.

            He had met the Marx family shortly after the incident, along with his wife. Their son, Isaac, had gone missing as well, leaving them just as worried as he and Martha. He had to admire them though; they had not yet given up hope. He and Martha had given into despair so many times that he hardly slept anymore.

            Tonight was no exception. He sat, the receiver in hand, but not yet up to his ear. He might have set the phone back on the hook were it not for a nagging in the back of his mind, and the lateness of the hour. He glanced at the wall clock; it was nearly midnight. Who would be calling at this hour?

            He lifted it to his ear; there was silence on the other end. "Hello," he said. Mister Delancy almost put the receiver down until he heard a voice cough twice. "Hello," he asked again.

            Something scratched at the other end of the line, then the caller spoke. "Is this Eugene Delancy?" a deep, gravelly voice inquired. Mister Delancy managed an "uh-huh" in reply. "I apologize for the lateness of my call, sir. But I have information regarding your son. Michael, is his name, yes?"

            His eyes went wide and he checked the caller identification. He did not recognize the area code. Wherever the caller was, it was certainly out of the ordinary. "Who is this," he demanded. "Are you with the police? Or is this some kind of sick prank?"

            The voice laughed, sending chills up Mister Delancy's spine with some inexplicable enormity. "No, no, Mister Delancy. But I have heard the rumors circulating about the monsters that took your son." The voice paused, waiting for a reply. When none came, it continued, "I've seen them. A tall red one, and a shorter green beast."

            How could he have known that? After one initial report, the police had sequestered any mention of monsters in the news via gag orders. And only the families had any knowledge of such details. Officially it had been declared a gas explosion. But there was none of the typical destruction that would have accompanied such a blast. No scorch marks, no residue from an explosion had been found.

            "Who is this? How do you know about that?" he shouted. Martha called down from upstairs. "No, it's nothing," he called back, hand over the receiver. Whispering furiously, he spoke into the phone again, "What do you want?"

            "I want to help you, Mister Delancy," said the voice.

            How? How could he help? Among all the tapestries of rumors and lies, how could anyone claim to have separated fact from fiction? And now a stranger—merely a voice on the telephone—had told him the rumors were true? But, and he thought it over, he had nothing to lose. That night's rest had already been long lost to him. Mister Delancy sighed. "Alright. I'm listening."

            "Very good," the voice replied. "I bring you a warning. Those  _creatures_  took your son. They took that other boy as well. I don't know what they did to them, but they will be back. Do not trust them. They will come with offerings of peace, but they will bring only more destruction. Do not trust them."

            "Wait! How do you know?"  _CLICK_. The line died; the caller had hung up. Mister Delancy muttered to himself. How did  _that_  help? Complete nonsense, he thought, but stopped short of hanging up the receiver. Just… what if?

* * *

             Tank ended the transmission, grinning mischievously under his helmet. The Enemy growled once under his breath. Those humans were so easily manipulated. Weaknesses, bound in ties to family and friendship, pervaded the Human world as easily the Digital World. The only method of ensuring  _complete_  control was fear—to demonstrate it, through brutality and pain, secured power. Nothing else.

            The mega turned to its master, lowering its eyes. Whether this was out of fear, or respect, the Enemy did not care. As long as he maintained his authority, the goings on of Tank's pedestrian mind were of no concern to him. Even a mega-level Digimon would dare not challenge him. To do so, everyone knew, would be suicide. He was a legend; with a mythos so enshrouding him that not even his two generals could accurately tell what was true.

            The Enemy's power and strength was enough to annihilate entire cities with one attack. This servant, useful as it had proven itself, was nothing to him. He had allowed the BlackWarGreymon to retain its memories and some semblance of a personality. Otherwise, what use was it as a spy? But even after it had learned to obey, it had still arrogantly taken the name "Tank." As if it were somehow superior to the countless other minions that served the Enemy's will. Pathetic.

            But there it stood, still waiting to hear its master's bidding. "You have performed… adequately," said the Black Diamond. The mega nodded once in reply, obviously pleased with itself. The Enemy displayed an unusual amount of patience, allowing that sort of display in his presence. "Go now, to the Human World and wait for the hybrid. Millenniumon will have failed to stop this  _offshoot_. He seems to grow in strength in proportion to the challenge."

            "Yes, my lord," intoned the mega. "How shall I go about eliminating your enemy?"

            The Black Diamond waved a hand at him dismissively. "You may destroy him by whatever means that amuse you."

* * *

            "You can't be serious," Cotramon exploded. The thought of it; bringing that monster to the Human World would wreak havoc. The humans would panic at just the sight of him and Michael, let alone that—that  _thing!_  "That thing is a menace. It can't be trusted!"

            Both of them had dedigivolved, the fighting over. But at the sight of the ultimate, Cotramon had been ready to make mincemeat out of him. It had taken all of his will power to remain calm and hear what Michael had to say. And that, he decided early on, was not helping convince him of the monster's trustworthiness.

            " _Anything_  marked by the Enemy," he growled, "can't be trusted. And if what you say is true, then he was working in league with the man responsible for the deaths of countless Digimon—and all for the sake of his scientific curiosity!"

            " _Any_ thing?" Isaac asked him, casting a glance in Michael's direction. He sat scratching his chin, looking up at the giant. The Chimeramon peered down at him in reply, saying nothing. "I don't think he's a monster any more than you are," the human said. "That is to say, he's a digital monster, but not without intelligence or moral fortitude. But I think Cotramon may have a point."

            "Thank you!" the medic said, exasperated. "Finally, someone with a little common sense!" He glared pointedly at Michael, resolutely ignoring Isaac's first point.

            The human chuckled a little and shook his head, deflating him. "What I mean is that while he isn't a bad guy, he still appears to be monstrous—" and he shrugged at Chimeramon, who merely shrugged back. "It'll be hard enough to convince anyone after the ruckus you two caused. But he would have the national guard out in an instant."

            Michael growled. "You haven't learned anything from all this yet, Cotramon?" He pinched his remaining bandage for emphasis, "Don't judge by appearances… And let's not forget that you've been wrong before," Michael pointed out sardonically. Cotramon held his breath, his next remarks poised on the tip of his tongue.

            "All of your puffed up rhetoric is about as useful as hair on a fish," said the hybrid. Then, seeing his partner deflate even further, he added, "You'd think for a race as diverse as Digimon, you'd learn not to judge by appearances." Shaking his head, he sighed once. He had leapt to the same conclusion, and attacked first. But at least Kai could take care of himself. "I truly don't believe it will be a problem."

            He had also made a promise. More than that, the Digimon was very much like him. Michael saw himself, alone and unwanted—people were willing to kill him—and sorely in need of someone to give him the benefit of the doubt. Michael wanted to redeem himself, and this Chimeramon wanted to redeem Millenniumon.

            But Isaac had made good sense, even if the hybrid resented it. It would do no good to have people panicking on the streets. "Where does this Gate correspond to on Earth?" he asked, an idea sparking in his mind. "Somewhere where we can slip into an unpopulated area, right? Isaac will go first, explain what happened, and we will follow. Then we do the same for Kai. Explain that he's no monster despite his appearance."

            Isaac nodded slowly and Cotramon could see his arguments dissolving. But what if he turns on us, he wanted to say. But the Digimon kept silent; Michael had demolished that argument as well. And in spite of his overt hostility toward the towering Chimeramon, Kai had been peaceable so far, not even raising his voice.

            "He's also offered to train me," Michael added, garnering a questioning "huh" from his human partner. The hybrid ticked off on his clawed fingers the number of close scrapes they had just barely survived. "Let's face it," he said matter-of-factly, "I'm lacking the basic fighting skills that most Digimon are born with."

            "And Isaac," the giant said. "You have an untapped potential inside you that will be needed later. You would also make an excellent sparring opponent for your partner." That the human had already elevated his partner to ultimate was a feat worth of recognition. But even that accomplishment would fail to meet the coming challenges. "I mean to make you both stronger, faster, and tactically minded."

            Cotramon humphed. "He's already pretty strong. And I could teach them myself. So you really don't have any need to come along. Lest any of you forget, I was trained by the Sovereignty and the best of the Imperial Guard."

            "And no doubt," Kai offered, "it served you well as an assassin and errand boy. But in observing your fight just today, I dare say you could stand to learn some more as well." At that, Cotramon began fuming again, nearly foaming out the mouth in rage. "Calm down, small one. What I mean is that you were trained well for the task you were given. But it has become so much more than that. The fate of two worlds hangs in the balance."

            " _Small_  one!" he hissed.

            Michael put a claw on his partner's shoulder, gripping it firmly. "Take it easy… He's got a point." Cotramon turned on him, eyes alight. He jumped, removing his hand by reflex. "Cotramon, take it easy. Take a deep breath, count to ten. Punch a rock if you have to."

            Come on, Michael thought, you aren't doing anyone any good if you can't control that temper. He glanced up at the Chimeramon, pleading with him silently. Kai sighed, and sat down, crossing his arms. Michael decided he looked much less menacing that way. "You can spar with me and Isaac. I'm sure we'll learn a lot from you."

            Ever the diplomat, Isaac grinned. "I saw that sword that Gideomon had. Maybe swordsmanship?" he suggested. "It might help if we ever see Tank again…" He cut himself off, receiving anxious looks from both rookies. " _If_  we ever see him again. But I have a feeling we will. He's like an unlucky penny."

            "Just keeps coming back," Michael finished. Swordsmanship was not a bad idea, especially if they faced another mega of any sort. He was relatively sure that the Digital World could provide a weapon of sufficient size and strength for either his champion or ultimate forms. "I've seen professional re-enactors before."

            Kai shifted his bulk, leaning back on one of the trees, which groaned under the unexpected weight. "I've kept myself well-informed of your travels, as I said. I know your capabilities. Cotramon," and he gave the rookie a knowing glance, "is well accomplished in hand to hand combat. I suggest you begin there."

            Cotramon shot him a look which suggested the ultimate should tread carefully. Though, what he might have done had Kai decided to harass him further, he did not know. The fact was—and it galled him immensely—Kai was right. Tank had been trained as part of the Imperial Guard, elite among all the warriors of the Digital World. If he had to guess, Tank could outclass even the Sovereignty.

            Even Dinohumon had given the stout little rookie a sound beating…

            Kai had been diplomatic, and Cotramon acted like fool. In both cases, it had been one of the others that had tipped the balance. And, of course, it had been Isaac who stopped him back on Earth. At last, he relented, giving in to the inevitable. Though he did not like it, this creature was coming with them. "You give me too much credit," he offered. "But I'll do what I can… And… I would be grateful for any assistance you could provide."

            "Your training is a credit to you," the ultimate commented. Then he looked up, squinting, and then back down at the trio. Time was short—he could feel in his bones, in the confabulated parts that made up his body, the Enemy was on the move. "I'm sure you'll make a fine instructor. But right now the sun is setting."

            "That's right," Isaac beamed. "We'll need a fire." Then he began to clear a small area and gather wood for his fire. The matter at hand now settled, Cotramon and Michael also began setting about pitching a camp. Michael helped gather firewood while his Digimon partner broke out some rations from his pack. Seeing this, Isaac's grin became even wider. "That's an excellent idea! Some supper and a good night's rest."

* * *

            It was several hours later when Michael woke from his sleep. The fire had all but died; only embers remained. He looked about their little clearing—Isaac and Cotramon were both soundly asleep. He would have guessed it was well past midnight, if he were sure that the Digital World ran on a twenty-four hour clock. If he were honest with himself, he would have admitted that he had lost all sense of time since coming to this world.

            He knew it had been weeks since he had first transformed. The passing of day into night marked the traditional day, and judging by that… Oh, who knew anymore? His parents had probably given up all hope of finding him. He had hoped they were still looking, but after so long, how could they hold out for so long?

            Then Michael wondered about Isaac's parents. Would the Marx family have given up on their son? He had never known Isaac before this, and knew nothing of the two humans who raised him. But judging by their protégé, he would have guessed not. At least not yet…

            The hybrid turned over on his side, his tail having gone to sleep. Finding that position just as uncomfortable, he sat up and tried massaging feeling back into it and growled when he got nothing more than pins-and-needles for his efforts. How did Digimon do it, he wondered, thinking of his partner snoring just a few feet away. Never mind, he decided. He would get used to that in time as well.

            It was then he heard a rumble, and a shadow shifted on the other side of the dead campfire. Four arms stretched wide and two acid eyes shimmered with their own curious light. For a moment, Michael started, then realized with relief that it was only Kai.

            "Couldn't sleep?" he rumbled softly.

            The hybrid shrugged silently, wondering if the other saw him. "Just thought I'd relieve the watch," he suggested.

            "No need. The sun will be up soon." Chimeramon knew the hybrid could not see him, but he smiled anyway. He was not quite a Digimon, the ultimate supposed thoughtfully. Definitely not human, though, he decided. And he was certainly not what anyone had expected. "What a marvelous puzzle you are," he said aloud. "…so much like your fathers, and so different as well."

            "That hasn't exactly been a good thing, you know?"

            "Ha! I disagree," the Chimeramon laughed. "You have the same thoughtful demeanor as the Enemy, but the same sense of Right as Pyromon. You also have the same tendency to charge in once you've made up your mind," he continued. "I would call those good things. Paired with your inherent strength, I would say you have the makings of an excellent warrior."

            Now Michael laughed, derisively at the declaration. "I've nearly gotten myself blown up three times now. How is that excellent?" Shaking his head, he sighed and began pacing around the fire pit. "Isaac and Cotramon have had to bail me out every time. Besides that, I don't even like to argue, let alone fight."

            "Except you bailed them out," the ultimate corrected. "As I have repeatedly stated, rumors still filter down to me. I heard about your confrontations in Anshar." Oh yes, he had heard. He found it amazing that a hybrid, not even fully aware of his powers, could take on opponents of such strength and digivolve so quickly. "Do you not understand how powerful you must be?"

            Michael opened his mouth to answer, but Kai cut him off. The mutant Digimon knew already what Michael would say: that he was lucky, that if it had not been for the Sovereignty, he might have lost his fight with the mega. "To battle a mega-level Digimon, even having digivolved to the same level, is difficult enough. To do it on unequal footing, at merely the ultimate level, is almost impossible. And that's to say nothing of the speed with which you attained the ultimate level.

            "Have you no sense of the accomplishments you've made? For Digimon, it can take decades of physical training and mental discipline to reach that level. Most are content merely digivolving to champion. And only the most powerful digivolve to mega."

            The Sovereignty, for all their flaws, had exercised wisdom in recruiting him. And the Emperor had seized the opportunity even further and sent him to recruit others. Kai wondered, what must the Enemy be thinking of his offspring now? And Millenniumon—what of him? Could he have known that his creation would be this powerful?

            "You only need refining," the giant told him.

            The sky had lightened considerably, and sounds emanating from the forest indicated that it, too, was coming to life. The odd constellations of the Digital World began to fade into daylight and, at last, the hybrid's two partners stirred from a sound sleep.

            Cotramon awoke first, yawning and sitting up. He stared at Michael. "Already awake?" he asked. Then, seeing the looks exchanged between the hybrid and the Chimeramon, he scratched his head. "You sure like those pre-dawn talks, don't you? First with Tank, now with Kai… we aren't going to get attacked  _again_ , are we?"

            Michael shook his head, the barest hint of a smile crossing his scaly muzzle. It seemed that Isaac had been right, and a sound slumber had done wonders for Cotramon's attitude. "I—uh—couldn't sleep," he said. "I lost circulation in my tail, and the feeling is just starting to come back to it…" For emphasis, he rubbed the tip of it with one hand.

            "Try sleeping on your stomach," the Digimon replied helpfully. Shaking the last vestiges of sleep from his eyes, Cotramon straightened out his bedroll and rolled it up tightly. Then, collecting his belt and medical kit, he made his way over to Isaac in the waxing morning light. Then, unceremoniously, he dumped Isaac out of the human's sleeping bag. "Sun's up," he informed.

            Isaac, regaining his wits after such a start, grumbled at the Digimon. It was not his fault that he required more sleep than a Digimon. "And you'll forgive me if I don't share your military discipline!" he finished, eliciting a low, growling laugh from the trio of Digimon. Yawning and rubbing his eyes, he queried, "What's for breakfast?"

            Cotramon had already broken out another set of rations for them, and tossed a package to Isaac. "Same as dinner. Nutritional supplement—" he inspected the plastic wrapping—"oh-two-nine-four." He tossed another to Michael, who grinned widely for Isaac's sake.

            "Nothing better than a nutritional breakfast," he told his partner. Though, come to think of it, something more flavorful would have been appreciated. He supposed, though, that like all things, luxury was a second to necessary. And while the rations that the Sovereignty had generously provided them did serve to meet the dietary requirements for both human and Digimon, they still tasted like dirt.

            So it was that the three of them sat around the remains of their fire—a paltry few smoldering embers—choking down their breakfasts. Kai sat quietly behind them, munching on something of his own. And Michael thought, of course he should have his own supplies. No one had noticed the pocketed belt looped around this middle.

            Several minutes and a few brave gulps later, Isaac made it a point to ask about the digital gate. "How far is it?" he wondered, looking at Cotramon.

            "Just a few hours walk," he replied. Had it not been for their encounter yesterday, they might have reached the gate already. But, and he chalked it up to fate, things never seemed to go as planned. "We should get to the fog barrier soon. Then it won't be long until we reach the gate to Earth. Let's just hope there's no one there to meet us…"

            Michael nodded his agreement, wondering again how he was going to explain all this. Soon after, however, they had resumed their journey. Cotramon had been right, and the fog barrier came upon them after only an hour. From there, they stuck closer to each other, trying not to lose sight of one-another among the maze of ironwood trees and mists.

            Then, as the trees began to thin out, they came to a clearing. The fog was still as impenetrable as ever, but the eyes of the Digimon had begun to pick up the extraordinary array of colors generated by its infrared emissions. Once again, Isaac was blind to the gate, but could definitely feel the heat generated by it—not like he had on Earth the first time.

            The human began to wonder just what sort of conditions created these gates. But he was given no more time to ponder on it as Michael and Cotramon grabbed him by the arms and threw him forward. They followed. Then came Kai, an enormous shadow behind them.

_Fin_


	14. Homecoming

            Isaac stepped out of the fog first. Michael followed second, accompanied by his partner. Lastly came Kai, who suddenly eclipsed the sun, causing the others to look back at him. By any guess, it would have seemed that they were still in the Digital World. They had found themselves in a small clearing, just barely large enough to contain the ultimate. This was surrounded on all sides by trees. Only by observing the lack of fog, and that these were different from the ironwood giants of Yggdrassil did they realize that this was indeed Earth.

            The human came to his senses first. “It’s the park,” he stated, spying a well-kept, if dusty trail. It was far too small to have been made by Digimon. And further along there was a larger clearing, undoubtedly the park proper. “The other end of the trail comes out by my house.”

            Unfortunately, his enthusiasm was not contagious. Michael merely nodded in reply before saying, “I remember.” It had been forever since he had been there. It seemed like even longer since his stay in the Digital World. He strained his eyes toward the park, and his ears twitched with the sounds of laughing children. The weather had gotten warm since they left, unseasonably so for September. “The trees thin out before the trail ends.”

            Isaac gave him a questioning look, as if it had not occurred to him that it should matter. “What are we going to do about Kai? We can’t leave him here.” He listened again to the distant sounds. “And someone is bound to wander by here eventually. We’re lucky these woods are thick as they are, otherwise he would have been spotted already.”

            Cotramon crossed his arms in satisfaction. “I told you bringing him was a bad idea,” he declared smugly. “It isn’t like you can throw a tarp over him.”

            The human scratched his head, then, after a moment, snapped his fingers. “What if we _could_ throw a tarp over him?” he wondered aloud. “Michael, do you remember where the trail crosses Dry Run Creek?” His partner confirmed. “You three meet me there in ten minutes. I’ve got an idea!” With that, he took off running down the path.

            Of all the things in the Digital World, currently Isaac was most thankful for the enormous amount of walking he had to endure. Weeks of trouncing around deserts and forests and ruined palaces had increased his stamina, but he had forgotten just how long the park trails were. His estimate of ten minutes was grossly off the mark, as it took him that long just to reach his house, where thankfully, his father’s pick-up truck sat in the driveway.

            He stopped by the mailbox to catch his breath, happy but winded. Maybe he should have thought more about Kai’s offer to help train him—but there was no time for that now. Instead of heading to the front door, he went around the back to a large shed that made up the back of the yard. Opening the gate, he found the long, flatbed trailer still parked there. Going back up the main path, he took a deep breath and pushed the door open.

* * *

          Carl Marx sat in the kitchen, staring blankly at the clock while his wife, Nancy prepared supper. He was a tall, graying man of about fifty, largely built with a body that suggested he would be trouble if anyone ever picked a fight with him. But, and his son inherited the trait, he was a passive man, more interested in picking friends than fights. Typically, he would introduce himself, receive a questionable look from those unfamiliar with him, and state that his father had a dark sense of humor.

            This worked well ninety percent of the time to break the ice, which was how he met his wife, a much more delicate woman. That genial charm had won her over, even though he was older by several years, and she married him and settled down to help make a home. All that, however, seemed like a lifetime ago.

            The past few weeks had strained them both to the breaking point. Mister Marx had lost his warmth and Missis Marx her glow, falling into a melancholy that only the parents of a missing child could understand. In public, it had been stiff lips and standing tall for both of them. The media painted them as a model of strength in difficult times. At home, though, and to friends, they barely hung on to any hope at all.

            This had been the routine since their son had gone missing. All the while, they wondered where he could be, and if there were any truth to the rumors. Mister Delancy, the father of the other missing boy, had suddenly become very adamant that it was indeed the truth. Monsters—creatures from another dimension, had kidnaped their children.

            The clock chimed five o’clock and Carl sighed heavily. Another day gone. That was when he heard it: the sound of the front door opening and the familiar creak of a teenaged son on old hardwood floors. Oh sure, he had heard it a thousand times in his head, hoping beyond hope that he was not imagining it. Each time it had been a false alarm.

            But—and he started so much he toppled the chair to the floor and spilled his coffee—the sound of Isaac calling for them proved that he had not imagined it this time. “Dad! Mom!” came the call. Missis Marx dropped her mixing spoon and fumbled to turn off the burner. Then, like magic, he appeared. “I’m home,” he said.

            The speed with which his parents traversed the divide between kitchen and front door put that of light to shame. Isaac suddenly found himself smothered half to death by his father’s burly arms and his mother’s vice-like grip. Moreover, he had gotten only those two words out before he was bombarded with questions and condemnations.

            “Where were you!” his father asked, releasing him at long last. “What happened?” And the eldest Marx launched into a quick explanation of rumors, myths, and known facts surrounding the two boys’ sudden disappearance. “Well, son?”

            Catching his breath for the third time in so many minutes, he grinned. “On an adventure,” he replied. It was sufficient to say that this initial explanation was nowhere near enough to satisfy either of his parents, who assailed with more questions. “Look,” he said, wondering if anyone had wandered by the dry creek bed yet, “I’ll explain everything, but right now I need your help. It’s important.”

            He looked his father in the eye, pleading with him. After a long moment of silence, Mister Marx finally capitulated. “Alright, son, what is it you need.” Isaac gripped his father in a tight bear-hug and breathed a sigh of relief, then began detailing what exactly he had in mind. A few minutes later, the flatbed was hitched up and rolling down the road, a tarp in the back seat of the truck’s extended cab.

            “So you’re telling me the rumors are true then,” Mister Marx probed further into his son’s story. As Isaac had explained, he was in the company of several very unique creatures, having just returned from another dimension. Carl processed this in turn, not sure if he was believing it. “And that’s why you need the flatbed? To move one of them?”

            “Yeah,” his son answered. Kai was pretty large, too much so to fit inside the house. But the shed would suffice. Michael—whom Isaac had judiciously avoided mentioning by name—and Cotramon could stay inside. He just hoped his parents would be amenable to the idea. “They asked for our help. What was I supposed to say? ‘Sorry, but no thanks?’ and let their world go to hell?”

            He had hoped his father would be more sympathetic. After all, everything he had learned he learned from that man. Isaac shared his father’s belief system, so he could hardly be expected to do anything less. Now he was beginning to question the wisdom of going to him. But it was too late, the bell had been rung, and events set into motion. Dad was going to meet the monsters whether he believed in them or not.

            Then they were there, rolling up to one of the park’s entrances. It wound through the trees, and intercepted the trail at Dry Run Creek, where Michael and the others should have been waiting. Hopping out of the pick-up, he panicked at first, not seeing them, and called for Cotramon, hoping the shorter of the two would be less intimidating.

            The medic scrambled out of the dry river bed from underneath the bridge where both walking trail and road passed over. “It’s about time! You said ten minutes.” Michael came next, looking nervously about for any other signs of human life. “We almost got caught. Luckily, Kai was able to squeeze himself under the bridge there.”

            Mister Marx stepped out of the truck as well, slowly, taking in every detail of the two peculiar monsters. “So it is true… I’m… I’m sorry I doubted you, son.” He came round to the other side, seeing Isaac gesturing for him.

            Isaac cleared his throat and began the introductions. “This is Cotramon,” and he held out one hand toward the shorter of the two. “He’s the one who got me into this whole mess. But I think it’ll be okay now.” Then he put his hand on Michael’s shoulder, smiling broadly. “This is Mi—I mean, my partner, Pyromon. He saved my life a few times…”

            “It’s nice to meet you,” Marx said cordially. To be truthful, he was hoping that they were in some sort of costume—he had heard about strange people in the park in silly costumes before. But the fluidity of their movements, and the odd growling accent proved they were undoubtedly inhuman. “But I still don’t see the need for the trailer.”

            That was when Mister Marx yelped in surprise as an enormous hand reached up out of the creek bed. This was followed by a proportionally sized head, torso and three other arms. “Oh my Lord!” he gasped. What was that thing? Where did it come from? Isaac had said one of them was huge, but—oh the size of the thing! “What is it?”

            “I am Kai,” it said, offering one immense hand to the frightened human. To his surprise, and to the human’s credit, the man accepted the offer of friendship and murmured a pleasantry that Kai did not quite hear. “You’re a credit to your race, Mister Marx,” he continued. “Most Digimon would run at the mere sight of me.”

            Marx stood silent for a moment, unsure of what to say. Finally, he coughed out a suitable reply. “If Isaac says you’re okay, then I’ll take his word for it. My son has never been wrong before.” Then, as if he had been slapped, he remembered the reason why he had come. “I brought a trailer and a tarp,” he said.

            The giant head nodded once, and crammed himself onto the trailer. Then the four of them set to work draping the tarpaulin over him and securing it. “I’m sorry about the indignity of this,” Isaac told him. “It’s the only way I could think of to move you without arousing too much suspicion.”

            “Think nothing of it, small one,” Kai grunted.

            That finally being secured, Isaac beckoned the two Digimon over. “I’m sorry about earlier. I didn’t want to use your real name,” he explained to Michael. “I thought it would be too much for Dad to believe.”

            “It’s okay,” the hybrid replied thoughtfully. “It’s probably for the best. I don’t have any way to prove who I am. I wouldn’t blame them for being suspicious of me.” He sighed and peered over Isaac’s shoulder. “What do they know about what happened?” he asked.

            “The official report says that we’re still missing with no leads,” he told them both. “As for the unofficial, they’re taking the rumors pretty seriously.” Then he leaned in close, whispering. “It sounds like your dad is going crazy. He says someone called him on the phone and told him to expect us.”

            Cotramon instantly became alert at that. He knew the Sovereignty could establish two-way communications with Earth if needed. But it made no sense for them to do so, especially using such a primitive device as a telephone. However… “I think it could be the Enemy. He’s cunning enough, and it might sow enough distrust to break up any chance of an alliance before we even get started.” One thing was for sure, though: The clock was now ticking down.

            A blast of the horn roused them from their private conversation. Mister Marx was motioning for them to get in. No sooner had they closed the doors, then Michael’s head was shoved down and a pair of joggers ran past them. Thankfully they took no undue notice of their larger cargo and went about their business, swiftly passing out of sight.

            After he had started the engine, he turned to the back seat to address the two Digimon: “I’m afraid the accommodations may not be what you’re used to. But there’s a pull-out couch in the living room, and my wife is fantastic cook. I’m afraid the big guy will have to take shelter in our shed.” There would not be much room for him anywhere else. Still, he hated the thought of leaving him outside. “You don’t think he’ll mind, do you?”

            Michael shook his head. “I don’t think it will matter much to him. He’s a bit of a loner, anyway… But thank you for the hospitality,” he added. “It’s been… rough. With all we’ve been through in the last few weeks, we could use a rest.” Immediately he regretted his choice of words. It begged the question of what exactly they had been up to. It would be difficult enough to explain without having to mention that Isaac had been in no less than five potentially lethal situations since they had met.

            Fortunately, Isaac’s father had shown some control over his curiosity. Then the reason became apparent, as Isaac had given him a fairly detailed account of his adventure thus far. “I know—Isaac told me,” the man said. “He also told me that you saved his life.” Michael looked pointedly at his human partner, who shrugged, as if to say, “I couldn’t lie to him.” Michael sighed and confirmed that part of the story.

            “Actually,” he replied softly, “Isaac saved my life on a couple of occasions. He’s my partner, you see. I was being tried for crimes I didn’t commit.” Mister Marx nodded quietly, not taking his eyes off the road. “Isaac came to the Digital World with us to offer testimony on my behalf. So, I owe him my freedom and my life.” You raised a good man, he thought solemnly. “After that, we were asked to come back here to ask for help.”

            “They’re facing a war of annihilation,” Isaac interjected.

            Cotramon nodded vigorously. “A tyrant is on the verge of all-out war against our people,” the Digimon explained. “And I’m afraid that after this fiasco, he knows about Earth, too, and he’ll come after you next.”

            “We’re in trouble, Dad,” Isaac continued. “I don’t know how to go about it without causing a panic. But we need to get peoples’ attention—and fast.” He only hoped that when the time came, the rest of the world would be as compassionate as his father

            Then, glancing at Michael, he remembered a second problem they would have to face. As yet, no one had asked where he was. It was only a matter of time, though, before either of Isaac’s parents brought up that inconsistency. Isaac, though not wanting to lie to his parents, had decided it was best that Michael’s identity remain a secret at present—something with which the hybrid agreed.

            Mister Marx hummed to himself, thinking. “I would say the first step would be to go to the police and explain everything you told me.” He pulled up to the house, and began to back into the driveway toward the shed. “After that, we can ask them to get into contact with larger government agencies. Fortunately,” and he grinned, “your old man has a few contacts you didn’t know about.”

            At last the truck stopped. Isaac and his father climbed out of the truck, followed by the two Digimon, and began the process of unhitching the trailer. Only after it had been entirely disconnected and the back gate shut, did they remove the tarpaulin from over Kai. The Digimon breathed a sigh of relief, taking in the fresh air. It was a pleasant change from the staleness of the plastic covering him.

            He inspected the shed, then looked down at Carl and thanked him. “I thank you for your generosity,” he said, without the slightest hint of sarcasm. “These accommodations are more substantial than my home in the Digital World.” Indeed, the shed was insulated, heated, and large enough for him to move around. The adjacent yard was also large enough for him to move freely, and protected on all sides by large poplars, assuring privacy from all but the most prying of eyes.

            “You’re sure?” Michael asked him incredulously, inspecting the surroundings for himself. The giant nodded, the faintest hint of a smile crossing his hideous face. Briefly, Michael wondered what he was smiling about, but a startled squeal from behind him caused him to turn. Missis Marx had stepped outside to see the commotion brought on by their arrival.

            “Oh my Lord,” she gasped, nearly dropping her ladle. There she stood, frozen as Isaac, in the midst of these strange creatures, strode forward and took one of her hands. Missis Marx almost resisted being drawn closer to them. But after a reassuring smile from her son, she acquiesced. “What are they,” she asked, looking again to Isaac for answers.

            He took his mother’s held hand and extended it first toward Cotramon, who reached out and gave a firm, but gentle shake. “These are my friends,” Isaac informed her. “This one is named Cotramon. He’s a little rough around the edges, but he’s a good man.”

            Next he brought her toward Michael, who had hung back near the trailer. Solemnly, he proffered his own claw tipped hand, his brilliant eyes downcast. “I’m his partner,” he started, then trailed off when Isaac whispered something in her ear. Her hesitant expression suddenly disappeared and was replaced by one of pure relief, and he found himself in a tight embrace from the woman.

            Now his turn to be startled, he stood rigid, tail stuck straight out, the tip a-twitch. She had begun to cry, almost uncontrollably, so that her next words were only just clear enough to comprehend. “Thank you…” she wept. “Thank you so much for bringing back my son.”

            Michael, unsure of how to respond, let the woman cry into his shoulder until Isaac pulled her away. “I really didn’t do anything he wouldn’t have done—or already did,” he replied. “My name is M—” he almost gave his real name—“Pyromon… Isaac’s partner. And without him, I don’t know where I’d be right now.” He almost welled up himself, thinking over the past few weeks. Instead of saying anything more, he hung silently, hoping someone else would relieve the tension.

            Finally, Isaac’s father spoke, nodding slowly. “Let us return the favor, then. We’ll get you set up tonight, and then tomorrow we can contact the authorities.” Michael blanched at the thought, his scarlet hide paling noticeably. Equally uncomfortable with the prospect, Cotramon suddenly tensed up. “What? What’s wrong,” the eldest human asked.

            Neither of the two rookies knew how to respond. Isaac stuttered momentarily until Kai proposed a likely sounding half-truth: “If by the authorities, you mean the police force that has been investigating your son’s disappearance, I would suggest otherwise. If they are looking for monsters, then they will likely not see us as civilized people. Our appearances—especially mine—might distract them from our real purpose here.”

            “And what exactly is that,” Marx demanded.

            “Peaceful first contact,” the giant replied. “And to request asylum for our youngest and weakest citizens.”

            And there would be questions, Michael thought, that he did not have a readily available answer for. Most notably where the human version of Michael had ran off to. Yes, it was true that almost a dozen other humans had seen him transform into this—creature—but after almost a month, how many of them were beginning to doubt what they had seen?

            The initial reports—and the official ones—had declared the fight a gas explosion. Enough of a build-up of gas would have caused hallucinations among the students. Therefore, he considered, even telling the truth, he would have no corroborative evidence. Only two eye-witnesses knew for sure what had happened. Isaac and Cotramon; and they would likely not be believed.

            Also, questions of what had happened to them while they were gone would be raised. Telling Mister Marx that his son had been attacked four times in the interim was hard enough. Explaining it to the masses would paint them as savage beasts—something that Michael could not allow. So with no lie and no truth available to them, what would they—what would _he_ say?

            Then, Michael’s attention was jerked back to reality as Mister Marx had begun speaking again—this time not as a sympathetic host or thankful parent, but as an authoritative adult addressing a group of children. “Regardless,” he was saying, “we have to inform the police that Isaac is back. And the two of you can help their investigations further.”

            It was then that the man paused, a look of puzzlement crossing his face. And Michael, knowing what had occurred to him, shrunk back involuntarily. “Do any of you know what happened to that Delancy boy? Michael was his name, right?”

            Isaac gulped. Michael gulped. Cotramon gulped as well. The three of them exchanged a look that each other understood as, “We should have told him the truth!” Michael gulped again, and feeling his stomach knot up, he raised one claw to draw the attention of the older man. Isaac slowly shook his head, and his hybrid partner ignored him, swallowing dry.

            He felt oppressively hot—almost overwhelming him to the point where he was in physical pain. It was much like when he first transformed, except this time it was of his own doing. Resolutely, though, Michael pressed onward. “I—uh—I can answer that,” he said, barely a whisper. “When we all got back through the gate, I asked Isaac to keep it from you. I thought maybe we could avoid the topic until I had some proof…”

            “Don’t,” his human partner said. “It’s my fault, not yours!”

            “Don’t worry, Isaac,” the hybrid told him. “Mister Marx, Missis Marx, you’ll think I’m crazy when I say this… But _I_ am Michael Delancy.” Nancy Marx wore an incredulous expression on her face. Carl Marx, doubly so. “Somehow, some way, the Digimon were able to tamper with my genetic makeup, so that I’m half Digimon and half Human. But I haven’t any proof.”

            “It’s true,” Isaac informed. He took a few steps toward his partner and stood next to him, placing a hand atop the hybrid’s shoulder. “I saw him change with my own eyes. It wasn’t a gas explosion that wrecked the school, it was these two fighting.”

            Human eyes shifted to the shortest of the Digimon, Cotramon, who sighed and continued with the story. “When my government learned what had happened, they panicked and sent me to—ah—take care of him…” Here, he looked down at his feet, clinching his teeth and making a fist. “In my zeal to protect my people, I didn’t consider that he was also of human origin. So I attacked him. Isaac stepped in and stopped me.”

            He rubbed the top of his head thoughtfully, and gave a wan smile to the human. “Your son is quite brave to step into the line of fire like that,” he said. “When I subsequently informed my government about what had happened, they _requested_ ,” and he emphasized the word with the frustration he felt at the whole debacle, “that Isaac come back with us to offer testimony.”

            “So I did,” Isaac interjected. “Then they asked us to come back and ask for help from Earth.”

            “They’re facing a war,” Michael said, “against a brutal Enemy who might try for Earth too. He would have no problem destroying the smallest Digimon. They’re too weak to defend themselves from anything, let alone something that powerful.”

            Mister Marx narrowed his eyes darkly at the hybrid. “And you just thought you could get away with not telling anyone?” He tapped his foot impatiently, and sped on without waiting for an answer. “What about your parents?” he demanded hotly. “Do you know how sick they are with worry? Do you know how much pain they’re in!” The man shook his head, throwing up his hands. “I can tell you— _from experience—_ that they are going absolutely crazy!”

            Michael sunk to his knees.

            “Your father thinks you’re dead!” Marx shouted. “For the past three weeks no one has known where you got off to. Then two days ago, your father claimed someone called him over the phone and said a red-scaled monster and his little green sidekick—” he now lowered his glare onto Cotramon—“killed his son!”

            Unable to control himself any longer, Michael burst into tears. “They think I’m dead!” he wailed. “I wanted to tell them. I really did!” He looked at his claws, then buried his muzzle into them. “I couldn’t let them see me like this… They wouldn’t have believed me… How could they when I don’t look anything like their son?

            “They would hate me…” he finished, trailing off into sobs.

            At that, Mister Marx softened, and kneeled down in front of the boy. “Nonsense,” he said quietly. “Tomorrow, we’ll go there together. Isaac and I will go in first to explain what happened. I’m sure they won’t hate you.”

            Eugene was a reasonable man, was he not? Even Mister Marx was none-too-sure of what the outcome might be—the apparent loss of a child would test the restraints and rationality of any man. And then… what if Michael was right? Marx had taken all of his pent-up frustration out on him as well. And at least Isaac had come back alive and intact.

            He could scarce take in the truth himself! That this— _creature_ —could be human seemed impossible. But, as he watched sobs turn into mere sniffles, the depth of emotion proved beyond any mere physical evidence that it was true. Then, he thought, there must be physical proof too: DNA evidence that Michael, Pyromon, had to be what they all claimed!

            “We’ll eat some supper,” he suggested at length, “and discuss the matter over a meal.” He lifted himself off the ground, and proffered a hand to the hybrid. “We’ll figure this out, Michael.” Then he hefted the boy to his feet.

_Fin_


	15. Last Supper

            Before anyone knew it, supper was indeed on the table. A folding table in the back yard, to be exact. And Missis Marx had brought out a massive pot of something aromatic and steaming that, for the moment at least, helped everyone forget their troubles. The five smaller bipeds took a seat on a bench facing opposite the shed, serving themselves from the pot. Kai, who patiently waited until the others had eaten, was offered the remains—still half full—in the pot itself. This he took in one claw, and began to eat while the others discussed.

            “So if you’re a medic,” Mister Marx queried, “wouldn’t there be some sort of medical evidence to suggest that he’s human?” Not that he was an expert on any particular subject, but he was well-versed in many; he was a jack-of-all-trades. “DNA that would prove the claim?” he clarified to the Digimon.

            Cotramon appeared deep in thought for a moment. “I can’t say for sure. No one is really sure how the Clone Works actually functioned.”

            Missis Marx set her bowl down. “Even if there isn’t any of that,” she said hopefully, “you still have memories and experiences that no one else can possibly know.” Isaac nodded, as did Cotramon. Encouraged she continued, “Family vacations, personality quirks, hobbies or interests that only your parents would know about?”

            Michael nodded—this was true. He thought back to their trips to visit family on the coast, of visits to the lighthouse above the dunes. “There are others who would know about all that though… They’d just say we forced the information out.”

            Kai, listening intently above, set his makeshift bowl on the ground next to him. “Any information can be dug up with enough effort,” he rumbled. “But back to your idea,” and he looked down at the elder Marx. “I helped build the Clone Works. I know how it accomplished its task.”  This received a startled gasp from Cotramon.

            “There is an issue with this plan of action, however,” the giant continued, gaining everyone’s undivided attention. “The Clone Works was supposed to create a completely new Digimon based on the Enemy’s genetic data, overwriting the base code entirely. What I don’t understand is how the Sovereignty managed to get it operating at all.”

            Cotramon nearly choked on his bite of food. Incredulously, he looked up at the ultimate for more information. “The Sovereignty, and the technicians who worked on the project, were quite capable of making the necessary adjustments. But the machine, as everyone well knows, malfunctioned.”

            The Chimeramon growled a low laugh. “The machine was sabotaged,” he informed them. “When it became clear what the Enemy had in mind, Millenniumon and I decided to destroy the machine. We had accomplished the task when the siege forces broke through Anshar’s outer defense. To be sure it was destroyed entirely, we set a bomb to detonate should _anyone_ try to activate it.”

            “Wait,” the green rookie paused, “Millenniumon tried to destroy it?”

            “Yes,” Kai replied.

            “I remember you saying you wanted to help him,” Michael interjected. Cotramon had called him a beast, and a monster. The leading scientific mind that created the drones—those Digimon that had been tortured into mindless automatons—was a defector? “How long has he been trying to get away?”

            “Since the nearly the beginning,” came the reply. “But that is not what is important,” Kai told them, steering the subject back to Michael. “The malfunction which caused the Clone Works to create you would not have completely overwritten your human genetic data. This DNA should still be very much in evidence. Your altered anatomy is testament to that.”

            Cotramon nodded his head hopefully. “Yes. You have a hospital here,” he inquired of the humans. Any lab would do, he supposed, but if the physicians of this would could be persuaded—and from a purely scientific standpoint, why would they refuse?—they would be the perfect avenue for this endeavor. “Then that would be the best place to go,” he said when Mister Marx confirmed.

            “I have a friend up there as well,” the human said, “that owes me a favor. I’ve also got a pal in the police department who might talk to his superiors about arranging a meeting with your parents, Michael.”

            Marx sighed; the boy still looked strained, so he offered more encouragement. After all, he had friends everywhere in this town, and some not-so-friends who owed him favors as well. Like his son, the elder Marx was a home-body. But it afforded him opportunities to cultivate contacts and relationships all throughout the upper echelons of small-town government. He chuckled to himself. That was how he cajoled the sheriff into handing over the confidential investigative reports on his son’s disappearance.

            “We’ll get it sorted out,” Isaac was saying. “We managed to convince the Sovereignty, didn’t we?”

            Michael gave his partner a pointed look, then relaxed a little. That was true, he decided. And if that bunch of xenophobes could be convinced—the notable exception being Baihumon—with only the testimony of a human, then why should he worry about his parents? He took a deep breath and gave Isaac a confident clap on the shoulder. “You’re right.”

            Now that that was settled, Mister Marx decided, it was time to get to work. “I’ll go make a few phone calls,” he informed the group before heading inside. “Isaac, help your mom clean up,” he added as an afterthought. “The rest of you make yourselves at home.”

            “Actually,” Kai rumbled at the human, “if I could borrow Isaac out here, he has work to do with these two.” And the giant pointed two clawed fingers at Michael and his Digimon partner.

            Carl shook his head. “Of course, he gets tangled up in monsters and other worlds, and he’s suddenly too important to help his mother clean up the kitchen.” The old man chuckled again, and nodded. “Help bring in the dishes first,” he ordered his son. Sighing, he said, “I suppose it’s unwise to disagree with dragons.”

            With that, the group separated into its respective segments. The Marx’s disappeared inside the house, Carl to call in favors, his wife to support him, and Isaac to do the bidding of whomever called him first. Cotramon and Michael folded up the table after it was cleared and set it aside. Then they began, as ordered by the Chimeramon, to search for something suitable to spar with. After a few minutes of searching, Michael emerged from the shed with two old broom handles.

            “Crude,” the giant told him, “but they will suffice.”

* * *

          Mister Delancy picked up the receiver wearily. “Hello,” he questioned. Since that strange phone call in the middle of the night, he had gotten used to being called late in the evening. Usually by that same strange number. Oh, the things he had heard. And always about the creatures.

            “Mister Delancy,” the voice questioned. Eugene verified his identity. “I apologize for the lateness of my call. This is Carl Marx, Isaac’s father…” Eugene started, nearly dropping the receiver. This was totally unexpected—but not unwelcome. Carl Marx would only call unless he had news to share.

            Almost singing with relief, Mister Delancy welcomed the call. “Carl? Is it good news, then?” he asked, hopefully. “Have they learned anything else?” He babbled out questions until Mister Marx had to shush him. Mentally, he slapped himself. Let the man talk, he told himself. “I’m sorry,” he said quickly.

            “Think nothing of it,” Marx replied easily. “In fact, I was wondering if you and Martha would meet Nancy and I at the hospital tomorrow afternoon?” And, before Eugene could question him further, he added, “I’ll explain it all there. But… it is good news. I’m sorry I can’t tell you more right now, but I have other calls I have to make.” Then the receiver went dead.

* * *

          “Damned bloody hell!” Michael shouted at his partner, shaking his fingers after getting a good thwack from a pretend sword. Cotramon had just wrapped the hybrid’s knuckles hard, snickering. He had not had this much fun in ages, he realized with a mild embarrassment, and tried to control his laughter. “Yeah, you can laugh,” Michael told him testily. “I thought this was supposed to be practice…”

            So far, he had had the wind knocked out of him twice, and been tripped by the other’s tail at least half a dozen times. Michael was beginning to recognize a pattern. Settling into a defensive posture that Kai had shown him, the hybrid gritted his teeth and tried to put the sharp pain in his hand out of mind.

            “Loosen up,” Kai told him, watching earnestly as the two went at it round after round. “See how fluid his movements are?” He had come to realize just how much he had underestimated the little green rookie. The Sovereignty _had_ trained him well, just as the medic had said. “Now go again,” he ordered.

            Michael nodded sharply to his partner, signaling his readiness. Cotramon readied himself, then lashed out, sweeping his make-shift weapon at Michael’s legs. The hybrid leapt off the ground, landing a few feet away, then lunged at his opponent. Cotramon parried the incoming blow neatly, deflecting the wooden weapon with a crack.

            Twisting around, he shoved Michael back with his elbow, eliciting another wheezing gasp as he staggered back. Seizing the opportunity, Cotramon swung round again, trying the same trick once more with his tail. The hybrid, recovering more swiftly this time, saw the motion and swept his own broomstick under the Digimon’s feet, nearly knocking him to the ground.

            “Very nice,” Kai stated approvingly.

            The comment went unbidden, however, as Cotramon, having steadied himself, renewed the attack. He swiped at Michael, who parried, with more precision than he had yet exhibited. Then there was a break in the combat, both contestants breathing hard. “Good, good,” Kai remarked. “What is his weakness? What is your strength? Use them in combination.”

            Weaknesses, Michael thought. Despite his partner being a head shorter than him, the length of the wooden dowel gave him adequate reach. And Cotramon was physically stronger than he. But he was bulky, and slow. Michael, being longer of body and stride, was moving super-sonic by comparison. But the contraption he wielded was too clunky, even if it was only pretend.

            With no more time to think on it, he ducked out of the way of another flurry of blows. Then, watching as Cotramon readied another powerful blow from above, he brought his broom handle up, bracing it with both hands. The resulting blow jarred both his arms and shook him. Moreover, it cracked his weapon, breaking it into two pieces of equal length.

            He staggered back again, the two halves in his hands. Well, that solved his problem with a clunky weapon, and he smiled as he gripped both pieces tightly. Spinning round, he smacked Cotramon’s left arm, then doubling back, delivered a sharp crack to his right leg. The Digimon yelped sharply at the unexpected pain, jumping back.

            Isaac, returning from the house, watched in fascination. This was only after an hour’s worth of training, and he had already improved vastly. Cotramon’s abilities were nothing to mock either, as he watched them trade jabs. Of course, he had seen first-hand how talented the rookie had been with a blade, when he had digivolved to Gideomon just a day prior.

            But Michael— _whew!_ —he was something else entirely! Whether it was on pure instinct, or Kai’s tutelage, the hybrid had made significant strides. Silently, he set his curious bundle of wrapped goods down, and watched the two combatants in the waning afternoon sun.

            This went on for ten more minutes before Cotramon, breathing hard and now sporting several of his own bruises, conceded. Michael had managed to finally force the Digimon to the ground, and had one end of a broken stick poised over his opponent’s chest. The hybrid, realizing he had actually won, grinned down at his partner and proffered the former weapon as a tool to help him to his feet.

            Cotramon accepted with admirable grace, and beamed happily at his partner. Kai looked on approvingly as well. Then, parking themselves on the bench that had served as dinner seats, they finally noticed Isaac and beckoned him over.

            “Where did you disappear to,” Michael asked. He spotted the bundle the human had been carrying and inquired of it.

            Isaac picked it up and moved toward the two draconic Digimon. “Well, as I was bringing in leftovers, I remembered seeing these in the basement a while back.” He unwrapped the bunch and spread the contents over the ground in front of them. It contained several dusty, but useable, wooden training swords. “My dad got these from a friend in Japan,” he explained. “I asked if he wouldn’t mind us using them, and dad said yes.”

            Cotramon let out a chuckle. “I think those broom handles worked well enough,” he said, eyeing Michael, who sat absently rubbing his bruised knuckles. “Those might have been better, though,” he decided, wincing as he aggravated one of his own minor injuries. “But wow, was that fun…” He whistled a long note and sighed contentedly.

            Michael agreed, much to the surprise of his two partners. It had worked out some of the tension in his body, and had allowed him to vent some of the anxiety into some useful activity. “I guess I just needed to get it out of my system,” he supposed aloud, then yawned, his gaping maw startling Mister Marx as he came outside.

            “What a set of teeth,” he observed quietly. Coming up to the three of them, he said, “I’ve got it all set up. The police, as well as your parents—” he nodded to Michael—“will meet us there tomorrow at noon. We’ll have to wait for the results, but that shouldn’t take too long.” He paused, taking a seat next to his son. “After that—pending the results of the blood tests—the policed offered to let us join in a press conference.”

            “I don’t think the world is ready for this,” Michael murmured. “I sure as heck ain’t…” He sighed and beckoned for Isaac to hand him one of the swords. Standing, he inspected it, gave it a clumsy flourish and nearly smacked Isaac over the head with it. He apologized sheepishly and took another one. This time, taking a few steps away from them, he twirled them about, showing much more grace. “I think the weight balances me out,” he suggested.

            Cotramon took a third weapon and moved out onto the lawn as well. “Shall we go again?” he invited. They might as well get as much training in before nightfall as possible. Watching his partner, though, he decided that Michael was indeed correct. The ease with which he brandished the duel weapons was impressive.

            Michael executed a three-hundred-and-sixty degree spin before stopping, facing Cotramon exactly, weapons at the ready. He took one deep breath, and let it out slowly, poised once more on the brink of action. The smaller rookie moved first, too fast for his size, in the opinion of the humans, and charged forward, crouched low. There was a crack, and the sword was parried by Michael, quicker still than his Digimon partner.

            Isaac watched, incredulous as to how fast either of them moved. The exchange of blows lasted approximately five minutes before the match ended in a stalemate. Cotramon was grinning broadly and Michael, troubles momentarily forgotten, was even smiling. That was how Isaac wanted to see things, and he grinned back at the both of them.

            How long had it been since Michael had enjoyed anything at all, he wondered. His partner had mentioned on several occasions how much he had endured even before he had transformed. Months of pain and fatigue had made shambles of his spirit—then he had had to brave the ridicule of being interrogated by the Sovereignty. The numerous battles they had fought had also taken their toll.

            Then Isaac was struck suddenly of the image Cotramon’s examination of him in the palace’s hospital wing. The “bump test,” the medic had called it. Cotramon had been in good spirits, and it had raised Michaels to the point where the hybrid could start to hope for better things. He laughed at the image of his partner nearly falling over after a good shove.

            And then it was replayed in front of him as Cotramon walked past him and administered yet another bump test. Michael’s balance was even better this time, as he barely moved and then shoved the Digimon back. For a moment, he thought they might come to blows. But Cotramon merely shrugged it off and continued smiling.

            Isaac turned to his father, his smile fading suddenly. “What if Mister Delancy doesn’t believe it?” Yes, there were the tests. But those could prove inconclusive. And, somehow, Isaac thought the man might be the sort to disbelieve solid evidence and blind himself to the truth. “What will Michael do then?”

            The two Digimon took position once more for another spat with the swords. Mister Marx watched them carefully for a moment before replying. “I don’t know,” he said quietly. Michael was certainly not a fragile person, but outright rejection by one’s own family could prove to be too much for even him. “He’s always welcome here,” the elder Marx told his son.

            The older man put a hand on his son’s shoulder and smiled lightly. “Let him forget about it for now,” he told Isaac. “At least let him have right now before he has to face the world again. Tomorrow is going to be a long day for all of us.”

 Fin


	16. Blood and Family

            The next morning, they rose early from bed. Isaac had dutifully set his alarm to six o’clock. His parents were awake an hour before him. They ate a quick breakfast once the two youngest had appeared. Isaac, showered and dressed in fresh clothes appeared first. Michael, who had used the facilities second, appeared ten minutes later.

            The appointment with the sheriff’s office wasn’t until eight o’clock, so Cotramon pulled Michael aside, checking on his injuries. His earliest wounds were nearly gone now, and the ones from the battle with Tank were almost healed as well. All that were left were the bruises from the sparring the night before, and those were only a dull ache.

            The ride to the police station was quick, if cramped, inside the truck. Kai stayed behind, owing to his size and far more intimidating appearance. He would come if needed, he had said. And though no one was sure why he would be needed, the three partners were quite glad to have him at the ready. Then they were there.

            Michael had elected, unlike his partner, to dress as discretely as possible, borrowing a hooded sweatshirt that was much too large for him, and sagged over his scaled claws and tail, hiding them for the most part. With the hood pulled over, he could almost pass for human.

            And oh, how desperately he wanted to. Even as they entered the station, the small-town beat almost empty this early in the morning, he still received startled glances and remarks from those working at desks. He pulled the hood down farther and tried to slink out of sight, following the rest of them meekly.

            Mister Marx approached the clerk at the front, asking for the sheriff. Yes, he had an appointment. What time? Eight o’clock—he apologized as they were a quarter hour early yet. That was no problem, the clerk replied, seemingly taking no notice of the Digimon behind him. She dialed her superior on the intercom. Yes, he would see them now.

            A pair of officers, one bearing a Lieutenant’s mark, appeared out of nowhere and led them back to the office. At the door, he turned and asked that Nancy and Isaac please wait outside. Isaac protested immediately—he could not leave his partner’s side. And, after all, he was witness to the trouble that started all this! He had a right to be in there.

            The other officer remained indifferent to them, and Mister Marx squelched the protest firmly. “It’s okay, son. If we need you, we’ll call you.” He was sure they would. But for now, best to play it safe. That seemed to calm the young man down, and with ill grace, he took a seat beside his mother.

            Michael felt as if he were being swallowed as soon as he entered the office. The office, despite belonging to a city-elected official of a small town, was professionally barren. It was black, metal, and contained a lamp, a selection of pens, and a computer. Aside from that, the only thing of note was the figure behind the desk. He glowered at Michael from behind it, seeing through the ridiculous disguise.

            Then he turned his gaze to Cotramon, who was so startled by the intensity of it, that he inadvertently took a step back. If he had thought the Sovereignty intense, then this human was on a level that surpassed even them.

            Finally, he turned to Mister Marx, and his expression changed. “Carl,” he greeted, and offered the three of them seats. Michael breathed a sigh of relief, as did his partner. Mister Marx smiled and stretched his hand forward. “These are my officers, Tom Havoc and Marcus Gray,” the sheriff introduced them in turn. “You must be Michael.” He took his hand from Marx and turned it toward the hybrid.

            Hesitating, Michael reached out with his scaled hands and claw-tipped fingers and clasped the man’s hand. “My name is Darren Wilde.” His handshake was firm, professional and mercifully brief. Poor Michael thought he might be crushed under the man’s presence. “This is your—partner, did you say?” he questioned, turning once again to Marx.

            “That’s right.”

            “Cotramon,” the Digimon introduced himself, taking the sheriff’s proffered hand. “I apologize for the trouble we caused you. This was all a misunderstanding,” he tried to excuse himself.

            Michael removed his hood. “They did something to me by accident,” he explained. “It made me half Digimon and half human. And when they realized that they had made a mistake, they tried to correct it.” He shot a withering glance at his partner, who blanched at the memory and admonishment. “No one was really hurt, though. And we got it sorted out.”

            Sheriff Wilde nodded.

            “My government wanted an explanation,” Cotramon continued. “So I took him back to my world, along with Isaac. He was an important help in explaining the mistake we had made.” He rubbed his head unconsciously. “As Michael said, we have it sorted out.”

            Sheriff Wilde nodded again. His expression was now one of curiosity more than anything. He, of course, had heard the rumors of monsters fighting in the high school, and that was what had caused the destruction. But not until now had he even considered the possibility that they might be true. Even the declarations from Mister Delancy, emphatic as they were, had been dismissed as delusions.

            He had assumed that, in grief, the man had conjured up the story of midnight phone calls to make sense of all that had befallen him. Only he was privy to the details of that call. And he regarded the two creatures with reservation now—but, he decided, he would keep an open mind. If they were so bent on destruction and war, they would not have come so willingly to try and justify themselves. They could have as easily slipped in, attacked, and slipped out again.

            And Marx trusted them. He had known Marx for years, and he trusted that man. The man was a jack-of-all-trades in the old way, eager to lend a hand, and completely dependent upon the notion that people were essentially honest. So far, and much to Wilde’s surprise, he had been proven right on almost all occasions.

            That being said, Carl Marx was not naïve to the world either. And the seriousness with which he had spoken of this encounter was not lost on the sheriff. More hinged on this than Marx had led him to believe. Now he wanted it, all of it, so that he could make a proper assessment of the situation. He said as much to the Digimon.

            Cotramon and Michael shared a single moment of blackness between each other, then turned to the sheriff. “War,” they said in unison. “It basically comes down to the survival of our two races,” Cotramon continued. “A Digimon of immense power is intent on conquering my world. And once he does, he’s bound to take your world as well. His greed is as boundless as his ruthlessness.”

            “What we’re asking,” Michael added, “is that the nations of Earth take in refugees that can’t fight or defend themselves. And,” he gulped, thinking of the power that Tank wielded, “possibly be prepared to fight as well.”

            Again, the sheriff nodded his comprehension. “What I would like to know,” he probed, “is why we should get involved? This enemy of yours has not yet attacked Earth, and he may not if we simply stay out of his way.” Cotramon was shaking his head, and Michael sat with mouth agape in disbelief.

            After all this, all that they had been through, they would receive no help, even from local government? The door opened suddenly, whacking the Lieutenant in the side, and earning the intruder a sharp reproach. Isaac ignored him, having listened in closely through the door. “You can’t be serious?” he demanded of the policeman.

            “I am serious, and I thought I told you to wait outside!” the sheriff demanded back. “Mister Marx, control your son!”

            But Isaac would have none of it, and shoved past Havoc and Gray toward the desk. He pushed through his two partners, planting the palms of his hands firmly on the painted metal. “You don’t get it! We’re already involved! The Enemy knows about us, knows that Michael is a hybrid and knows that I’m his partner! Even if the two of us had never gotten involved, there were other humans before us!”

            And the Enemy knew that too, Wilde surmised. Gray moved forward to apprehend the boy, but his superior raised a hand to stay him. He had no intention of sitting idle to begin with, but after Isaac’s impassioned plea to him, he was now absolutely sure. Thankfully, he was not without connections of his own. One of the state’s representatives to Congress was from their town, and a childhood friend of both Wild and Marx.

            “Very well,” the sheriff said, putting his hand down. “Gray and Havoc will escort you three to the hospital to conduct the tests.” He rose, and shook each of their hands in turn, bidding them farewell until later that day when the conference would begin. “I’ll have made all the necessary arrangements with state and federal officials,” he mentioned as they left.

            “Thank you, Darren,” Mister Marx clasped his hand enthusiastically. Isaac, Michael and Cotramon echoed their thanks in various shades of eagerness. Once out of the office, Marx turned to Michael and grinned: “I told you things would work out. You three go on with them. The missis and I will take the truck.”

            Michael hated strange vehicles. He said so as he slid into the back seat of Havoc’s police cruiser. “Can’t stand ‘em. Strange smells, strange sensations.” And there was no room for his tail to move about with his two partners crammed in back with him. He sighed. He supposed he was just anxious.

            He was awash of feelings. Relief that at least he had some allies at home on which he could rely; the sheriff and his men, though initially taken aback by his appearance, listened and tried to keep an open mind. Fear, again, that his father and mother might reject him outright, even when the truth was so apparent. Anxiety about whether they would succeed in gaining Earth’s support in the coming battle.

            And the fact that so many people were so relaxed around him and Cotramon, despite rumors and appearances, had a disconcerting effect on all three of them. Officer Gray seemed as if he were completely disinterested in them. It was almost as if, Cotramon speculated to Michael, he had seen Digimon before somehow. When pressed, he confessed that yes, he had seen monsters before, but not necessarily the same kind.

            Lieutenant Havoc, quite the opposite, was curious and fired off question after question at them. He had never seen the likes of this before, and wanted to know as much as possible about Digimon and the Digital World. “You see,” he informed them, “I have friends who would be interested in all this. One in particular, is an officer in New York and his son has always been interested in science and the search of extraterrestrial life.”

            So it was that he would ask, and the three answered, as one or individually as the situation demanded it. Their talks drifted merrily between the weather of Earth and the Digital World, and what sort of interesting information Isaac had uncovered about the Digital World in general. The officers, and Cotramon, were impressed with how much the human had absorbed in his three-week sojourn.

            Michael, though, remained silent for the most part, only grunting in reply to the odd question or two. His thoughts drifted elsewhere as the seconds ticked away and the car rolled closer to the confrontation with his parents. It seemed as if most of the humans had taken him at his word: the situation was far too bizarre to be made up. For that he was thankful, but he doubted his luck would hold out.

            They had decided that he should be kept separate from his parents until after the tests either confirmed or debunked his story. That was fine—it gave him time to collect his thoughts and think what he might say to his mother and father upon seeing them. Last night’s breakdown still hung heavy over his head, and he had no desire to repeat that in front of an even larger audience.

            The hospital was alight with curiosity as Michael and his little entourage made their way through the corridors to the blood lab. The hybrid, not wanting to draw too much attention to himself, followed meekly behind Mister Marx and the two officers. He still managed to draw stares and gasps of startled surprise, though.

            Isaac’s parents had rolled in shortly after them, and refused firmly to give any comment to anyone whatsoever on what was going on. Film crews had met them outside from local news stations, reporters bombarding them with questions. They had come to set up early for the press release, hoping to catch someone in a talkative mood.

            This was exactly as Carl Marx had planned it. One word to the sheriff Wilde and the doctor had produced prodigious results. Sheriff Wilde called the news agencies and the government officials, while Doctor Hobbs had quickly made requests that others of varying fields and specialties be on hand to help administer tests and perform physical examinations of the two aliens.

            Already overwhelmed, Michael was unsure if he wanted to proceed now or not. But a firm look from his two partners, and a squeeze from Cotramon’s tail, helped to calm him. They were with him: if he trusted them in Anshar, he could trust them here. Nothing had changed—at least that was what he told himself.

            So it was that they traversed the hospital corridors to the elevator and took it to the third floor. As he turned around to watch the lift doors slide closed, he gasped and nearly tread upon his own tail—his father was already there, pacing impatiently in a waiting room around the corner. Isaac caught sight of him too and gripped his partner’s shoulder tightly.

            His startle caught the attention of Gray, who regarded him solemnly. “I had trouble when I was your age,” he informed them. The impassivity that was maintained so far dissolved into a brotherly concern. He was not much older than Michael—maybe a decade, making the young officer a reasonable twenty-eight. “Not the same kind, of course, but still trouble. A man named Pat helped me learn a few things. He was a lot like your friend here,” the officer said, gesturing toward Cotramon.

            “I know it doesn’t seem like it now,” he continued, “but things usually work out alright in the end. You just have to trust your friends and work for it. If your father doesn’t believe you now, just give it some time. He’ll come around.”

            Just then, the elevator door opened, and another reception area greeted them. Two sofas, rather more comfortable than many hospitals’ equivalents, sat along opposite walls with coffee tables in front of each. The walls were painted a soft cream color with a blue stripe running horizontally along the center, leading to an alcove in which sat a window. Behind the window was a young woman in pink scrubs.

            She smiled, seeing the two officers disembark the elevator, and then yelped as she saw the two Digimon also disembark. “This is your ten o’clock appointment,” Havoc announced, approaching the desk. She nodded wordlessly and tapped out a three-digit code on her phone panel before picking up the receiver.

            “Doctor,” she paused. She glanced from her computer screen to the Digimon. Michael had removed the hooded shirt and she looked directly into his red eyes. “Your special appointment is here… Yes, sir, Marx’s boy and the two—uh—I’m not sure what they are.” Another speculative scan of the screen—“Michael,” she informed the doctor.

            She had the group take a seat to wait. Yet again, they were early. And as they sat, murmuring amongst themselves, she kept glancing over the desk to stare at the two Digimon. Michael tried to smile back, and she gasped. Cotramon brushed the reaction aside.

            “If it’s any consolation,” Gray commented, “I know how you feel.” Surprised, Michael turned from his partner to question him more closely. How could he know? Not unless he was an alien in a strange land. The hybrid shook his head and snapped his jaw shut. No. Cotramon might. Isaac might—he had been the stranger in the Digital World. But not this man, not this human who had never traveled beyond the borders of his own country, let alone world.

            “It’s alright if you don’t believe me,” he said, catching the look in the hybrid’s eyes. “But it’s true.” Michael humphed. But before either could say anything further, the door opened and a doctor with a tag reading “Hobbs” stepped out.

            “Michael?” he questioned of the group. Michael raised his hand. “Cotramon,” he questioned again. The green Digimon nodded. “If you’ll both follow me, I would appreciate it.” Both of them, they questioned. “Oh yes, once word got out that you were coming, I was asked if I would inquire of you two if we might perform physical examinations.”

            “Sure,” Cotramon agreed happily. Michael also acquiesced, though more caged than his partner. “Any information we can give them can only help us,” he told Michael. And if the humans were going to take in their huddled masses, then it might be good for them to have a base-line database on Digimon anatomy. They were understandably curious, though he doubted that a true xeno-biologist existed anywhere on Earth. No matter, he decided, stepping through the threshold. He could help. He humbly called himself a medic, but the truth was that he was, in fact, a doctor and a practiced surgeon.

            They followed Doctor Hobbs down a hallway and into an examination room. They would begin with the blood test that was the primary reason for their visit. But upon examining Michael’s arm, he paused. “I don’t see any veins,” he commented. “Is that normal?” Michael had no idea, and Cotramon was glad that had his profession to fall back on.

            “Yes,” he said. “It is. Digimon have tougher hides than you humans—thicker, so it’s harder to see veins and arteries. If you pull the scales tight, though—” and he demonstrated on his partner— “they become visible.”

* * *

          “I know they’re here!” Mister Delancy was furious. Those creatures—those _monsters!_ —were here, and no one had done anything to apprehend them! Face to face with Wilde, he stormed and raged, adamant that they be quarantined immediately. And that compromise was made only because he would not succumb to violence in front of his wife. “They killed my son!” he cried.

            And Marx? He had helped them! All because they brought back _his_ son alive. The traitor! How dare he call himself his friend! “They want peace, you said? They want coexistence with us?” He barked a derisive laugh at such a ridiculous notion. “It’s a pack of lies! Look what they did to the school, to me… to my wife!”

            Missis Delancy stood quietly a few feet back, wringing her hands anxiously. She had heard as well, that the creatures who took her son were here. And like her husband, she was fearful of them, and wanted desperately for an explanation. Thus, though she was less adamant about their incarceration, she let her husband roar on.

            Wilde stood to his full height, six foot and a half, as barrel chested as a bear, and stared down at Eugene’s meager five-ten. “I will not have you dictate to me how to run my department,” he bellowed, drawing astonished looks from the hospital staffers. “We are waiting,” he spoke more moderately, “on tests and forensic evidence that will prove conclusively what happened to Michael. If you will be patient, they will be completed in short order.”

            And just what would they prove? Forensic evidence… bah! Wait? Ah, so that was where they were keeping them… Mister Delancy narrowed his eyes at the man and stalked off. Wilde did not follow, and he turned the corner toward the elevator. No one was inside and he jabbed the button for the third floor. Half a minute later, it opened and the reception area opened before him. A group of people looked up at him.

            He strode out of the lift, ignoring the pointed stares from the Marx family, heading straight for the door to the examination rooms. Havoc and Gray moved to intercept him. “I’m sorry, Mister Delancy,” Havoc told him firmly, “but I can’t allow you back there.” He barred entry, using his body as a barricade.

            “Let me through,” Delancy growled. Both officers stood resolute. “Dammit! I said let me through!” He shoved Havoc out of the way, flinging him to one of the sofas. Gray grabbed him by the shoulder, but Eugene wheeled on him and brought a fist up, colliding with the young man’s chin. His head snapped back and he slumped against the wall unconscious.

            Before Marx could intervene himself, Michael’s father was though the door, shouting up and down the hall, looking for the perpetrators of his son’s alleged murder. He caught sight of the receptionist dialing her phone again, attempting to warn Doctor Hobbs that he was on the way back. It did them no good, as he heard voices from one of the rooms.

            Throwing open the exam room, he caught them by surprise. Michael, stripped down to a pair of boxers stared, mouth agape at the unexpected intrusion. He tried to speak, but his voice failed and all that came out was an inarticulate growl. He looked to Cotramon, who stared at the man, just as startled as Michael; then to the doctor, who frowned unhappily.

            Turning back to his father, a long moment passed between them. Still no words came to him until suddenly he found his voice and exclaimed “Dad!” He could not believe it—his father had come looking for him! Relief flooded through him and the shocked expression broke into a broad, toothy smile. “Dad!”

            A flicker of recognition shone in Mister Delancy’s eyes. For a moment he thought he had heard Michael’s voice come out of that _thing_. It had called him dad? Taken aback, he retreated a step as it stood up and approached him, arms outstretched. This was not possible—it couldn’t be! he thought.

            The memory of his son the day he disappeared asserted itself, and became superimposed over the creature standing before him. It was the same height, had the same wiry build and lean features as Michael, but… no! Frustration and confusion threatened to drown him and he closed his eyes, shaking his head. No! And he felt tears run down his face.

            “Michael?” he whispered. Then stronger, eyes opening, “What have you done with Michael!” The moment was gone, there was nothing to recognize in this creature. It had taken him, and he would never see his son again. “What did you do to my son!”

            The joy vanished from Michael’s scaly face, replaced by confusion. Havoc, Mister Marx, and Isaac suddenly appeared, grabbing him by the shoulder. What was happening? Dad was looking for him, right? That was the reason he was here; that was the only reason that made sense.

            He tried again. “Dad, it’s me,” he told the man. “It’s me, Michael…”

 Fin


	17. Fight the Good Fight

            Shock turned to revulsion, then anger, and finally unbridled hatred. He tried to move forward, fists clenched, but with three big men restraining him, he made little progress. Cotramon pulled Michael backward, not saying a word. Doctor Hobbs stepped forward between the two and helped wrestle him out the door, closing it behind them.

            Muffled voices filtered in. “I know it’s a shock,” came the voice of the doctor.

            “That’s not my son!” an enraged Eugene shouted back, cutting him off.

            “Please, Mister Delancy,” the doctor pleaded with him.

            Michael heard murmuring, indistinct but earnest sounding in its intensity. He turned to his partner, questioningly. What was going on? Cotramon bade him sit down and Michael began to redress himself. “Remember,” the Digimon told him, “he thinks you’re dead. Someone told him that, and he believed it. All that rage and anguish he’s been dealing with is being directed at us.”

            “At me, you mean,” Michael corrected. “Someone told him it was us, and it must have been someone working for the Enemy…” There was only one person who he could think of, only one person whom he knew hated him enough to destroy his family in such a manner.

            Cotramon nodded, somehow intuiting the hybrid’s thoughts. “The Enemy is cruel, and so are his agents.” He cultivated such malice, believing it to be an asset. “We knew that he had contacted your father. Without a proper explanation for your disappearance, I suppose he latched on to the one theory that made sense…”

* * *

          “Please, Mister Delancy,” Doctor Hobbs shouted over him. Isaac, his father and Havoc still continued to restrain him. But Isaac could not comprehend the rage that now engulfed the man. How could he fail to see that that _was_ Michael? Of course he had changed—there was no denying that—but his voice was nearly the same, he still looked like Michael.

            “We took a blood sample from him,” the doctor continued. “They’re comparing it to the DNA sample you provided to the police—but even without that, I would say that yes, he’s your son! Without even having known him personally, I can tell you the anecdotal evidence is there. He remembers growing up here, all the ins and outs of all the hiding places. Your fishing spot down by the river…”

            “It can’t be…” he railed, his protestations slowing.

            “I watched it happen, sir,” Isaac spoke up, releasing his grip. Mister Marx and the lieutenant also relaxed their hold on him. “I saw it. It sounds impossible; I wouldn’t believe it either if I were you. But it’s the gods-honest truth.”

            Almost a month had passed. Tomorrow was the first of October. And Isaac remembered it like he had just seen it happen. “Everyone else had panicked. Cotramon thought he was some kind of evil clone, and attacked. Your son… he was hurt, and might have been killed if I hadn’t stayed.” He could feel the grip of the chair, the weight of it over his head as he brought it down upon the unsuspecting Digimon’s head.

            Eugene turned to face him.

            “He talked about you—was afraid of what you’d say if you saw him,” Isaac continued. “He wanted to say good-bye before we left. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it—wouldn’t let me go in for him. But we had to go, you see, so that we could tell _them_ what happened. That it was all a mistake.

            “Then they put him on trial, tried to punish him for things he had nothing to do with. You should have seen him, though! Even as afraid as he was, he stood his ground. How dare they play God, he told them. Tampering with DNA and all that… And even after all that, he still stood up to defend them when they needed it! He saved their lives—he saved my life.

            “You raised a good man,” he finished.

            The hall stood silent. Isaac felt a tear in his eye, his face flush with the intensity of those memories. Mister Delancy was still as a statue, staring expressionlessly at the teenager. Inwardly he felt his passion die. Then, in the silence, there was a sound of thunder.

* * *

          At the same moment, thunder reached the ears of the hybrid and his partner Digimon. Closer to the outside wall, they could feel the ground shake. The walls rattled again, and then sirens blared and the lights flickered. Michael gulped. Cotramon did the same.

            Without waiting for his partner, Michael was out the door. Mister Delancy stood there, mouth closed, lips drawn tight across his face. Isaac faced him, tears in his eyes. “Isaac,” he said. “We need to go.” Mister Delancy tried to speak, but Michael cut him off before he could say anything. “I’m sorry. This has to wait…”

            Then he was off down the hall, out the door and piling down the stairwell. Isaac was close in pursuit, followed by Cotramon. Michael paused on the second-floor landing, breathing hard, sweating profusely. He stood there for a moment, the other two joining him, looking hard at him and wondering what he was about.

            “I…” he trailed off, and there were bright tears in his eyes. He wiped them away with his forearm and put a clawed hand on Isaac’s shoulder. He was not exactly smiling, but the look on his muzzle told Isaac how grateful and glad he was of the human’s presence. “Thanks…”

            Isaac nodded. “We’ll do this later,” he said, urgency in his voice. Right now, there were other things to attend to; namely, the rattling of windows and another blast of thunder. None of them needed guess who was outside waiting for them. Isaac’s blood boiled, and his skin flushed again—this time for a very different reason. “We have to stop him.”

            Another minute and they were in the lobby, looking out. Smoke choked the sky, giving it an orange hue, like the eerie twilight before a storm. “Come out, hybrid,” Tank’s voice called. Michael stood near the entry. He was wobbly; his mind still numb, and his limbs shook unsteadily. Cotramon barred his exit, firmly forbidding him from setting foot outside. Michael tried to push past his partner.

            “Let me through…”

            “Not on your life,” Cotramon replied. “You can barely stand—let alone fight—and you think you’re ready to fight a mega!” He was crazy, absolutely insane! If it were not for him knowing better, he would have had Michael certified! At the very least, Cotramon should have had him restrained. “You aren’t in any condition to fight anyone. Just look what happened the last time you tried taking him on. I’m _not_ letting you go out there.”

            Even if he were capable—mentally and physically—had he stopped to consider the collateral damage? Or the personal consequences? Michael glared defiantly at him, heedless. What about me, the Digimon thought. What would _he_ do? Images of the war flashed through his mind. Pyromon had given him the same look, the same attitude. Why did they do this—rush into things, never thinking about how it affects other people!

            “Oh hybrid! I’m waiting!” The maniacal laughter resounded again, followed by a crash of twisted metal as vehicle met its end. Michael saw him, reveling in the panic he caused. People ran every which way and scattered for cover. “By the bye,” Tank called in mock concern, “how is your _father_?”

            Michael’s eyes flashed angrily and he tried to push through his partner, a firm resolve taking hold. Even Isaac stopped him this time. “You need to stop and think, Michael!” Cotramon shouted in his face, and slapped him. That seemed to bring the hybrid to his senses and he stopped short backhanding the Digimon in retaliation. “I’ve seen this before. First it was Apocalymon. Now it’s Tank. You can’t stop him. He’s too powerful, and you’re just going to get yourself killed!”

            “I have to do something,” the hybrid growled back. He wanted Michael—to teach him a lesson, to prove once and for all who the superior race was. To make him pay for his arrogant belief that humans were equal in value to the lives of Digimon. Tank would force him and his partners to acknowledge that they were no match for him. And Michael doubted very seriously the idea that Tank would simply leave them in peace after the lesson.

            Yes, he understood: this was suicide. Cotramon looked at him, pleading to stay away, to hide—to do anything that would spare his life. “How can I run away,” he asked. “After all we’ve been through, how can you ask me to do that? Doctor Hobbs, Sheriff Wilde? What will they do? What about Gray and Havoc? They’ve all been trying to help us, and we need to do right by them too.”

            “More than that,” Isaac interjected, “what about the patients here? They can’t get away. And his mom and dad?” Michael winced, as if Isaac had stabbed him. But he nodded his head in emphasis. These were people that he cared about. His father—thanks to Isaac—had finally recognized him, if only just barely. What would he think if Michael were to run away? He was not raised a by a coward.

            “But…” Cotramon stammered. He shook his head, refusing to acknowledge that possibility. No! It could not be allowed to happen again. Just when he had found a family again, the Enemy was just going to take it away? Apocalymon had taken his friend and mentor before. Now Tank threatened to take his partner. There had to be another way.

            “I can’t lose you.”

            Michael growled and finally shoved past him. “You’re so damned selfish!” he roared. “You can’t see beyond your own snout! It isn’t about you, and it isn’t about Isaac, and it isn’t about me either! It’s about doing the right thing, even if it’s hard. Even if it’s impossible!” He wheeled on the smaller Digimon, sticking a finger into his chest. “Do you think I want to go out there? Do you think I want my parents to see me like _this_? In _human_? A _monster_ , like Tank?”

            Of all the foolish nonsense!—and from Cotramon of all people! He was supposed to be the experienced one, the one who could make the hard choices. Yet, as Cotramon slumped his shoulders and looked down, Michael could see the Digimon’s own tears falling to the floor. “I want them safe more than anything,” he said, pulling his partners close to him. “I can’t do that without you.”

            If there was any hope to be had, it was to found in their unity of spirit and strength. Even if it was just Michael fighting, they had to trust him. “Didn’t you learn anything in Anshar?” he asked softly. Cotramon looked up at him sharply. “You don’t fight the fights you can win. You fight the ones that need fighting…”

            “He’s right,” Isaac said, taking a deep breath. Unclipping his digivice, he exhaled slowly and took another. It beeped excitedly, warm to the touch, and glistening in the strange light, like some exotic pearl. “You know it as well as I do,” he told Cotramon. He broke away from them then, and held the door open.

            A thick miasmic fog rolled in, threatening to choke everyone. Smoke billowed from ambulances, news vehicles and Havoc’s cruiser. By now, both officers and Isaac’s parents had joined them in the lobby. Doctor Hobbs and Wilde were also present. And hanging back, peering intently at his son, was Mister Delancy.

            He stared at Michael as he talked, witnessing the entire exchange. Eugene watched him as he went out the door, his two partners with him, and gulped. Isaac had been right. The eyes were the same. There was something new in them, though; a bright fire that had not been there before. Missis Delancy came up beside him and clutched his arm.

            Was that really their son? She looked up into his eyes, her own questioning. He could not tell for sure—all the fog of the last few weeks had scattered his mind, made it slow. But he recognized those eyes. The slim features of his face—now a scaly, draconic muzzle. That phone call in the middle of the night replayed in his mind and he suddenly jumped.

            The voice outside—the one that called for Michael, called him a hybrid, invited him to his death—that was the same one! An expression of utter horror passed over his face, then of shame. That _was_ Michael! He had rejected, almost thought to beat senseless his own son; he had demanded him imprisoned and punished!

            “Oh my God,” he whispered. Then, louder, he wailed “Oh God! _Michael_ —come back!” What had he done? He charged out the door and caught Michael by the shoulder, turning him around and gripping him hard. “My God, what’ve I done!” he cried. “My son… It _is_ you. You can’t fight… I can’t lose you again…”

            But it was already decided upon. “I have to,” Michael told him, slipping out of his father’s embrace. “There’s nothing for it. That monster will destroy every _thing_ and every _one_ if I don’t.” But he smiled nonetheless, relief and gladness flooding through him. “Get mom to safety, okay?” He turned again and left, leaving his father to hurry back inside to carry out his request.

            Tank jeered at him as he approached. “Ah, the family unit…” he laughed with insincere admiration. “I’ll give you humans credit: it takes a lot break you! I had him eating out of my palm before you came back. He would have done my work for me had it not been for you and your human…”

            Then the mega grinned, spotting Isaac standing back from them. “Speaking of which, I should give _you_ my thanks,” he said to the human. “My Master was quite pleased with my report. I could not have completed it so thoroughly without you, Isaac… It’s a shame such intelligence was wasted on a human.” His expression turned to disgust and he snorted derisively at Isaac.

            “You should focus on me,” Michael warned. Then he took one nervous step forward, trying to hide the fear that permeated his mind. Tank’s armor had been freshly polished, shining eerily in the quivering light. He remembered the night they had talked on the balcony, and the subtle transformation of the BlackWarGreymon’s persona. It seemed now that his fragile veneer had finally been stripped away completely.

            He was no longer a man, but a beast, a wild animal that was no longer contained. He could destroy everything, and would, if given the chance. There was no reasoning with him, no trying to talk him down. The best Michael could hope for was to distract him long enough for the others to escape.

            Isaac held the digivice at the ready. He believed—he had to—in his partner. The device screamed, and glowed, and Michael took on the same aura. “You can do it, Michael!” he called. Of course he could. Every time they came up against someone stronger or faster, they overcame it. “Digivolve!”

            And he did. _“Pyromon digivolve to… Helmdramon!”_ And the strength of his partner spurred him on even further.  _“Helmdramon digivolve to… Heliomon!”_ The light faded from around him, and there stood the gleaming form of Heliomon. His metal claws and armor glimmered in the afterglow, his engines whirred to life.

            “Ah, that’s more like it!” Tank told him, beaming. “To be truthful, I would have been surprised had you fled. You foolish creatures are so easily manipulated.” The mega brought his claws up, ready to fight. “Now, shall we dance?” For a moment, he paused on the brink of movement. Then, with lightning speed: “ _Mega Claw!_ ” His claws alighted with dark energy, and then he lunged. Michael managed to dodge, and Tank sliced through the streetlight behind him. “Not as fast this time, are you?” he taunted.

            Michael grabbed the lamppost like a club and swung down hard, roaring as he did. “Fast enough to deal with you!” The light stand struck the mega square in the back, throwing him to the ground and splintering the pavement. Michael dropped his makeshift weapon and launched his own attack. _“Tazer Claw!”_ The cables wrapped around their target, electrocuting him.

* * *

          Sirens began wailing in the distance, soon getting closer and more distinct. Amidst the chaos, the near panic of the evacuation, Wilde had thought to call for support. He called for every officer available, riot gear—which the small town had hardly used—and tear gas. He suffered no illusions that they would be effective against such creatures, but it might help to cordon off the area and keep the public organized.

            They began arriving on the scene only a few minutes later. He directed the tactical squads to the front of the building to keep onlookers out of the way and, if need be, protect them. The rest were ordered to help clear everyone out as fast as possible. They would use the town hall as a makeshift hospital until the situation was resolved.

            Mister Marx and his wife immediately began helping to move patients to ambulances and transports under the doctors’ strict supervision. The sheriff briefly wondered where they had learned such delicacies, and then dismissed it. Any help was appreciated, and the Marx’s were certainly that.

            As for himself, he monitored the goings-on outside warily, knowing they could turn even uglier without warning. It seemed that the Delancy boy—and he marveled at what he had become—was trying to stall the other as much as possible. Then, almost too quick for Wilde to follow, the attacker made his move. There was a flash of light, and then a lamppost smashed to the ground.

            He unclipped a radio from his belt. “Units two and three, move in. Quietly.” He grinned, then, as he saw Michael wrap some sort of cable around the other and shock it. The two tactical units he dispatched were now flanking the battlefield. Lieutenant Havoc appeared at the head, signaling to his superior from across the lot.

            He put the radio up to his mouth again. “Target is the black one,” he advised. “The other is a friendly.” He saw them raise their side arms. “Use caution, though. Don’t fire unless threatened.”

* * *

          The fighting continued uninterrupted as both duelists were completely focused on one-another. They looked tattered and worn—the larger of the two, Tank, having dents and chips taken out of his armor. Michael was the worse of the two, though, as he also felt the effects of the battle wearing on him. He was breathing hard and needed a rest.

            No such rest was provided him, however, as Tank lunged again, diving in a twisting fashion into his Black Tornado attack. The attack barely missed him, and left a huge melted swath of asphalt where he had passed. Flipping back onto his feet, Tank turned on him again, swiping with his claws.

            The clash came to a sudden pause. “You’re slowing!” he laughed. “Did you really think you could defeat me? I was trained as a duelist during the Liberation War—the best my clan had to offer! Only my Master has ever bested me in combat!”

            That did not surprise Michael at all. The speed at which Tank moved belied his name. He was no clunky champion or ultimate Digimon. The mega level was the most refined, Cotramon had told him, taking years of discipline and difficult training to attain. The hybrid had no hope to match Tank for speed or strength.

            Still, he had been able to make a dent in him. He could see cracks forming in the armor, and Tank, despite his power, was also beginning to show signs of fatigue. Not much, though, Michael thought. He bared his claws and swiped at the mega. Tank saw it coming and pinioned one arm to his chest while he brought his elbow down hard on the small of Michael’s back where his wings met. Dropping him after that, Tank kicked him, throwing him at the feet of one advancing SWAT units.

            His eyes narrowed into slits and he growled. Then he laughed, watching the hybrid stand. “Clever of the humans, isn’t it?” he commented casually. “They thought they might gain the advantage of surprise while we dueled…” He walked past the ultimate with a wicked gleam in his eyes, pacing toward the human officers.

            Realizing what was about to happen, Michael grabbed at the mega and yanked as hard as he could. “Run!” he shouted. “Run or he’s going to kill you!” Tank grabbed one of his arms and nearly tore it out of its socket, tossing the hybrid aside like he was nothing. “Run!”

            None of them heeded the warning, however, as immediately they opened fire on the black-clad Digimon. First tear gas, and when that had no effect, bullets. A few of them found chinks between his armor, but the rest merely dented it or ricocheted off. Feeling only a bare fraction of the rounds fired at him, Tank still sauntered forward until he was only a few feet away.

            “Did you think I would not see this?” he asked, calmly inspecting the humans. “Did you honestly think _you_ could harm _me_?” Some stood their ground, reloading side arms. Others cowered, and those with the riot shields let them drop before pulling out their own pistols and unloading. “You pathetic little insects might have lived longer had you stayed out of my way! _Mega Claw!_ ”

            “ _Heat Viper!_ ” A searing white beam struck the mega without warning, dissipating the attack. Tank roared, feeling the burning heat of Kai’s timely intervention. The huge ultimate followed immediately afterward, interposing himself between the terrified humans and the dark Digimon. Still moving, he swung around using his forward momentum and threw his massive tail into Tank’s chest.

            Even as powerful as he was, Tank was outmatched in size. Consequently, he was flung back by the sheer force of Kai’s assault. “You coward,” he roared. “You’re no better than your master…”

            The monster skidded to a halt and picked himself up. “Well, if it isn’t the traitor’s pet Chimeramon…” It had been a long time since he had seen its likes skulking about the Master’s palace, doing Millenniumon’s bidding. In truth, Tank had thought the creature dead. Much like it should have been long ago. “I’m surprised you’re still alive. I thought the Sovereignty would have executed you.”

            “I’ve been waiting,” Kai replied. He ignored the frenzied screams of the humans behind him. All but two of them had panicked: Gray and Havoc, who stood their ground, watching. “Michael gave me the opportunity,” he said, watching the hybrid, who had managed to get back on his feet.

            Tank howled, nearly doubling over. “The opportunity for what? To make a fool of yourself, die in a futile attempt to save Millenniumon from my Master’s wrath?” He ceased his fit of amusement, and the pendulum swung back to stone-cold hatred. “You’re nothing but a pathetic hodgepodge of a Digimon, more machine than anything.”

            “At least he still has a soul,” Michael shouted, dividing the mega’s attention. Tank turned toward him; Kai approached from behind. “He didn’t sell his for power. He didn’t betray his world or the lives of his loved-ones. He’s right. You’re nothing but a coward—weak! You’ll never know what real power is…”

            “Oh, you poor fool…” was all he said before another blinding light from behind burst toward him. Michael caught the anticipatory grin before Tank swung around and brought up his shield just in time to swat the attack away. It arched harmlessly into the sky before exploding like a miniature sun.

            Then he grabbed the Chimeramon by an arm and twisted. There was an audible snap and Kai roared again, this time not defiantly or in rage, but in pain as Tank then threw him headlong into the building. “Now,” Tank shouted, “let that be a lesson to the rest of you. This fight is between me and the hybrid only!”

            Michael had thought they had the upper hand for a moment. Tank’s shield was cracked, and his armored claws had been reduced to barely functional slag from Kai’s first attack. Then he had watched awestruck, the ease with which Tank had deflected Kai’s second attack and then subdued him. Tank had been toying with him again, letting him waste time and energy in futile attempts.

            He had to fight smarter. Think about where he would try to land another blow, about what Kai had taught him. Where was this Digimon weak at? Where was the advantage? He looked back at his partners. Isaac stood watching, holding out the digivice like a talisman, willing him strength. Cotramon looked on, grim-faced, but silently praying.

            “Isaac,” he called. “Does that database have anything else on him?” He backed away, away from the hospital itself, toward an open field on the opposite side of the street. It belonged to a school next door, the students hopefully evacuated by now. But the field itself was empty. It was more open than the hospital parking lot, and he might keep the collateral to merely cosmetic damage, and not human lives.

            “Any advice would be good about now!”

            Isaac nodded, not that Michael noticed, as he had his eyes again focused on the approaching mega. He held out the digivice and brought the program up. On cue, the holographic display opened with a photo of a BlackWarGreymon that bore an uncanny resemblance to Tank. “Terra Destroyer, Mega Claw and Black Tornado,” read his attacks. “Dark element. Virus.” So far nothing useful had come up. Average weight, height, related subspecies of Digimon scrolled across the display.

            Tank laughed at him, taking in all the fear that now emanated from collective group of humans. “Nothing in that database can help you! Dueling at this level only comes from years of experience. I have a lifetime of it,” he informed the battered ultimate. “Even with your inherent strength—and I admit, you are powerful—you cannot win.”

            “I won’t lose,” Michael stated.

            “Ha! Perhaps that is the most amusing part of it!” he scoffed. Oh, how delicious it was to revel in the terror he caused! “Allow me to educate you properly,” Tank growled. “You fools hold out hope that you can defeat me. You believe that friendship and unity—intangible nonsense—will win the day. But look around you!” He began his approach, lapping up the negative energy in the air. “Even after only a few minutes, you see your end. The best the humans have to offer up against me merely dented my armor. And the two ultimate Digimon that dared face me are beaten.

            “You cannot win,” he repeated.

            Michael took stock of his surroundings. Tank was right. He could destroy all of them with a single volley if he pleased. Kai, even with his experience and strength, was no match for a mega. Even if he managed to hold Tank off long enough to evacuate the hospital—even the whole town—the Enemy would come. They would destroy it all.

            “I can’t lose,” he told himself.

            But he felt his energy draining fast. The cyber-enhanced limbs that made up his body felt like lead. How could he win when his opponent was invulnerable? Desperate, last-chance measures would do him no good if he could not find a way around that armor. And still the mega approached, his footfalls nearly silent on the battered pavement.

            Michael looked into the eyes of the dark mega—they bore a malignance so strong it seemed unfathomable—so different from his partners’ countenances. He tried to think about them. They had known battle and strife exclusively since meeting each other. He had only just gotten to know Isaac. The concern in those human eyes, and the hard, stony stubbornness in Cotramon’s were his strength. They refused to give up…

            Then, like a bolt of lightning it hit him. The eyes.

            “You must be either stupid or insane,” Tank sneered, seeing the hybrid grin suddenly.

            Michael crouched low, tearing a handful of dirt from the ground. Just beyond Tank was the lamppost that he had used before. He grinned even wider, and then took a running start before lunging at the BlackWarGreymon’s face. Tank raised his claws, ready to swat away the assault. But the hybrid had anticipated it and twisted round, wrapping his tail around one arm and throwing Tank on his back.

            Off guard and surprised, the mega only had time to blink once before Michael was on top of him, thrusting a dirt clod into the mega’s face. Then, with a burst of his wing-mounted engines, he made for the severed streetlight.

            Tank roared and screeched in pain, unintelligible, even to the other Digimon. He tried to get at his eyes, but could not do so with his arm guards. He tore them off, and then ripped at his eyes, trying to regain his composure. “You will pay for that,” he growled. Then he was spun violently around, his mouth bleeding.

            Michael was about to bring the streetlamp down for a second blow when Tank roared deafeningly; “ _Terra Destroyer!_ ” He had become faster since Anshar. The energy built up between his outstretched palms, concentrated and more volatile. In mere moments it had swollen into a blazing sphere of black fire large enough to incinerate the hospital and everything else within three blocks if it hit.

            Time slowed as he realized the attack had been meant for the hospital—and all those within—all helpless against such strength. It was at least as powerful as the shot Tank had taken in Anshar. Michael leapt forward, flying as fast as his engines would carry him and braced for the impact. Lord willing, he would be able to deflect it enough.

            He felt the searing heat and the fire engulfed him entirely. His armor shattered and he screamed, the force of the attack downing him and forcing him to dedigivolve. Unprotected, the rookie faced the full brunt of the attack. Michael fell forward, miraculously alive and somehow still conscious, on his hands and knees, unable to stand any longer.

             “Now that’s the position you pathetic creatures should be in,” Tank chided him, “On your knees, begging for mercy! When we rule this world and the Digital World, we will exterminate the human species,” he declared. He strode up to the hybrid, prideful and baring a bloody, malevolent smile. “So much for hope…”

            “I’m not begging…” Tank glared at the hybrid. “I’m not done yet, either.” He grimaced and gritted his teeth. Then summoning all of his strength, Michael stood up, looking defiantly into the BlackWarGreymon’s eyes. He turned back to his partners, who watched in astonishment that he was still alive at all.

            Isaac and Cotramon ran to their partner, disregarding common sense and Tank’s stern warning. The two took up positions on either side of him, offering him their support. Michael managed a weak smile at them, and then turned his focus back to Tank. “If you think you can exterminate us, you have a bigger problem than you realize,” Isaac said, clutching his digivice in one hand. The machine screeched, desperately waiting to release its pent-up energy.

            Cotramon nodded his agreement. “You can’t even defeat one rookie Digimon. Michael is still willing to fight, and so are we.” He raised a claw, which sparked and crackled with black fire. “It isn’t about fighting the battles we can win,” he said.

            “It isn’t about fighting the battles we can’t avoid,” Isaac added.

            “We fight the battles that _need_ fighting,” Michael finished.

            Michael sucked in a deep breath. There was a burst of light, he was not sure from where, and Tank flew backwards, tearing up asphalt and dirt where he skidded to a stop. The hybrid looked to the right and his human partner was aglow. He looked to the left, and found the same with his Digimon companion.

            Suddenly, he found himself transforming again.

            “ _Pyromon warp digivolve to…_ ” The transformation was so sudden, as if fate were giving him another chance. His limbs lengthened, grew stronger. The waning strength within him became renewed and even his wounds seemed to disappear. Then, as it had been with his first digivolution, he announced his new identity. “ _EmeraldGreymon!”_

            When he looked down, he found himself armor-clad in crimson plates, from head to foot. Centered on his chest armor was a gem, pulsing with a deep emerald light that matched his eyes. His arms, too, were protected by heavy armored guards that he now realized contained energy blades. The rest of his body was covered in ebony scales, except his four wings, which had been reinforced with the same armor plating.

            His partners, awash with the light from the digivolution, looked up. Isaac registered astonishment, admiration, and wild enthusiasm with whoops and hollers that were matched by the emanations from his digivice. Cotramon showed nothing less than awestruck wonder, as if for a moment he forgot it was Michael, and instead thought his long-lost hero had returned from the grave. It was a miracle.

            The impact of what had transpired did not escape Tank. His malicious eyes, trained on the newly evolved mega, were as filled with hate as the partners’ were awe-filled. “I see the famous general has returned to mete out justice!” he declared, the ire unmistakable in his voice. Somewhere, in the time it had taken to digivolve, he had retrieved his arm guards. And though his helmet was shattered and his armor battered, he was hardly the worse for wear.

            “Finally, a challenge.”

  _Fin_


	18. The Song without Words

            A ways back, Mister Delancy turned at a sudden, glorious light. It started as a soft glow, casting a warm light in the smoke-shadowed daylight, then grew in intensity and size. He could no longer look at it directly when he suddenly heard a shout—it was his son—and then a flash, stronger than any noon-day sun. When it cleared, a magnificent creature stood where Michael had once been.

            Mister Marx watched in amazement as well, along with all the humans, who had abruptly stopped, mid-panic, to gaze at the sight before them. A giant creature, strapped into bright red armor, stood there. Even with his ebon-black scales, he contrasted so sharply with the attacker that no one could help but believe that he was, indeed, on their side.

            Wow… Eugene breathed, taking his wife’s hand. Martha echoed the sentiment. More than just those two, however, the whole of the world seemed steeped in wonder over what had just transpired. Mister Delancy felt a tingle in the air, as if lightning might strike, very much like what Isaac had experienced the day the whole mess started; it was as if he stood on the brink of untold possibilities.

            It was then he noticed that everyone who had been cordoning off the area was now backing away, no longer holding position near the duel. Only the Marx boy and the green one stood their ground, willing their strength into his son. Then, as suddenly as it had stopped, the evacuation began again, with hospital staff, police and even the mostly-forgotten news crews lending what aid they could. Eugene almost laughed at that point, as at least one brave soul, standing well back of the duel, pointed a camera straight at the monsters.

* * *

          The slowly receding tide of humans had not been lost on Michael or Tank. The maleficent BlackWarGreymon chuckled and jeered at their cowardice. The humans had finally learned some common sense! Pity it would not help them in the long run, he thought. He had begun to enjoy toying with them. And what excellent pawns they made in his game with the hybrid. Now that they had retreated, he would have just that much more work.

            And as for the hybrid himself… Oh, this was a wonderful turn of events. He had always heard stories of the great General, Pyromon. He, who had been at death’s door and still found the strength to take on the Destroyer of Worlds, was now standing before Tank—or at least he was after a fashion. This was no _General_ , nor even a Digimon trained in the art of war.

            But, he admitted grudgingly to himself, the little whelp had shown tremendous resilience. He had survived this long, and even took the full force of his strongest attack, only to warp digivolve. That, though, may have owed more to the human, Isaac, than the hybrid’s Digimon heritage. The first order of business, then, would be to deprive the hybrid of that advantage.

            All these thoughts passed through his desolate soul in a few seconds, eyes shifting from person to person, studying them. Then, faster than he had yet demonstrated, he lunged. Bypassing the hybrid entirely, he made straight for the young human.

            Isaac only saw a brief flash of metal, and heard Cotramon shouting for him to run before he looked up. A long claw had stopped inches from his face, the arm to which it was attached caught at the elbow by a vice-like grip. Michael stood before him, an armored wall deflecting the attack.

            “Isaac,” he said, voice much deeper, and a hint of strain in it, “I would stand back if I were you.” The human agreed wordlessly, and made for the relative safety of the police cordon. Michael only heard footsteps as his two partners pounded the pavement away from him. Most of his concentration was focused on containing his opponent.

            He glanced at Kai, and then jerked his head back the way Isaac and Cotramon had gone. The Chimeramon bowed once, slightly, and took up a defensive position between them and the soon-to-begin-again duel. As soon as his partners were safely away, the hybrid released the BlackWarGreymon, growling at him. “That was a dirty move,” he said coldly, “attacking my partner like that. Have you no sense of honor at all?”

            Tank repositioned his arm guard, waving off the suggestion as if it meant nothing at all. “Merely trying to level the playing field, as the humans say,” he replied flippantly. “Why should you have the advantage?”

            “Against your years of experience,” Michael asked cocking an eye ridge beneath his helmet. “You said you were unmatched in your abilities, save for the Enemy. Who really has the advantage?” Tank still eyed the human as if he were a slab of meat, ready to be consumed. That monster would exploit every weakness he could find, take every cheap shot.

            But, and Michael nodded imperceptibly to himself, that made his opponent so dreadfully predictable. It gave him the high ground, so to speak. As for weapons, he believed they were evenly matched now. But his energy blades would easily deflect off Tank while he still had his armor. Then there was still the problem of speed—his opponent was decidedly faster.

             But… he ignited the energy weapons and they showed a brilliant emerald, casting a startling eerie light of their own. “ _Lucent Edge!_ ” he cried, sweeping in a broad arc toward his dark foe. The blades left a luminous trail behind them as they swept toward their mark.

            In another moment, there was a flash like lightning, and Tank had parried the incoming blow, catching the twin beams between his claws. For a moment, energy crackled between them, and then Tank jumped away, the arcs of electricity dissipating harmlessly. “Shall we test your speed then, _General?_ ” Then, tearing a chunk of asphalt from the ground, he threw it as hard as he could into the crowd of humans.

            Michael had indeed become faster, as he managed to swat the projectile away with relative ease. However, another lump of pavement, followed by another, and a third, and then a fourth and fifth chunk threatened to fly past him. These he batted away and deflected as well, with one striking his unarmored bicep, leaving a gash. For a moment, he thought he might have overestimated the BlackWarGreymon. Then, without warning, Tank dove and twisted, gathering his dark energy around him. “ _Black Tornado!_ ”

            The projectiles had steadily led Michael to the left, leaving a wide opening for attack, and before he realized what was happening, the black-clad Digimon had unleashed his spinning whirlwind of an attack upon them. He scarcely managed to stop the attack. Taking a cue from Tank himself, he seized one of the mega Digimon’s ankles and spun him round, raising him up and then bringing him crashing back down.

            The resulting crash twisted and mangled a police cruiser into which Tank had been flung. The thing crumpled around the dragon Digimon, encasing him, if only momentarily, in a thin metal prison. That brief pause gave Michael enough time to reignite his blades and use them. With another shining streamer of light, he plunged the blades toward Tank’s back.

            Tank roared in fury, his body writhing in rage, trying to free himself. The back plating was reduced to molten slag, and the searing heat had done more damage than the hybrid knew. Michael slashed again with his beam swords, this time intending to strike at an exposed joint at the waist. The BlackWarGreymon managed to free one arm just in time and deflect most of the damage.

            Still, Michael had managed to leave a large gash in the mega’s side. Tank flailed his free arm wildly, forcing his foe back. Then he ripped the police cruiser to shreds, freeing himself at last. The wound in his side bled a black, sickly looking mush, almost as if the Digimon had rotted from the inside.

            He wasted no time in striking back, rushing with lightning speed toward the hybrid. Even with the gaping wound in his side, Tank was quick. Not quick enough, though, as Michael side-stepped the first swipe, then used his armored forearm to repel the second. Michael now faced the open field, Tank’s back turned toward him for the briefest moment.

            Now was his chance!  He sliced at the air, leaving his luminous arcs of emerald fire and the gem in his chest plate pulsed even brighter. _“Emerald Burst!”_ he roared, as a torrent of green flame suddenly broke forth from where he stood. Michael braced himself against the recoil, digging his clawed feet into the chipped asphalt, but did not let up the attack.

            Tank only had time to turn before the assault enveloped him. The explosion caught him full in the chest, finally shattering his armor. Even over the thunderous assault, Michael heard him roar. “I’m not done yet, hybrid!” he cried. _“Mega Claw!_ ”

            It came swiftly, the claws inches from Michael’s helmet. He ducked, cutting off his _Emerald Burst_. Spinning round, he let the dark mega cut through thin air where his head had been mere moments before. Then, reigniting his blades, he swung them upward. For a long moment there was silence, but for the crackling of flames and the blare of sirens. Tank had landed gracefully on his feet, but did not move.

            Had Michael missed? He had been only inches away; he could feel the heat from Tank’s fiery claws as they passed overhead. Then, as he questioned himself, the BlackWarGreymon’s head slid cleanly from the rest of his body, disintegrating as it hit the ground. The rest of the body followed shortly after, exploding in a shower of data fragments before disappearing entirely.

            For a long moment, Michael stood watching where Tank had been. He had done it; it was over. He breathed heavily, panting, unbelieving. He had really done it… People were approaching. No, not just people, but his partners. The mega collapsed to his knees, and suddenly found himself smaller. Then two pairs of hands were hefted him back to his feat.

* * *

          It was many hours later when Michael awoke to unfamiliar surroundings. No. Wait? He rubbed his eyes, blinked, and took stock of where he was. The room was smallish, with a slanted roof and a dormer window. He was laying on a comfortable bed, piled with pillows and blankets that had a surprisingly familiar scent to them.

            That was when he realized why everything looked so strange. He had not seen the inside of his bedroom in almost a month. He was home! Everything was just as he had left it; there were still piles of dirty clothes everywhere, a mess of papers on his computer desk—not even he was sure what they were. A bright October afternoon streamed in through his window, which was what had waked him.

            Michael shifted on his bed uncomfortably before rolling onto his side and standing up. He groaned and twisted to look down at his tail. It had fallen asleep while he lay on his back and now hung limp behind him, pins and needles assailing the appendage. He rolled his eyes and tried to rub some feeling back into it.

            But, he mused, at least he was uninjured from the fight with Tank. Even the wound in his arm was gone. There were no burns, or bandages; only the telltale weakness of having digivolved left any trace of the battle upon him. He came out of this one miraculously unscathed—not like his last battle with the mega. Either he had gotten stronger, or he had been asleep for a few days again.

            He still felt the pins and needles in his tail, and massaging it did not help. It was strange, though, that his partners were not there to greet him. Cotramon was almost always hanging about with a caustic remark about how he was going to get himself killed one of these days. Isaac would typically hang back and snicker, then offer well-wishes. They were decidedly not there, and when he went downstairs, they were nowhere to be found in the rest of the house.

            While he wondered where everyone had gone, he was getting hungry. They would be back, he was sure, and in the meanwhile he made a sandwich and grabbed a soda from the refrigerator. Then, making sure his tail was able to move comfortably, he sat down on the couch and switched on the television. What he saw made him shiver.

            On every channel was a news broadcast of some sort—even on the national news, his little town had made the headlines. Outbreaks of monster sightings, alien invasions, ruins of hospitals and schools, and throughout it all came the recurring footage of Tank raising his _Terra Destroyer_ to annihilate him. Commentators speculated wildly about the implications of such events while others questioned what the government was going to do to combat the situation.

            Then, suddenly the arguing stopped and the footage cut to a live scene of a stage. Michael jumped—it was their very own city hall. “I’m sorry,” one anchor said, cutting the others off, “but we need to cut away. Going live, on the scene of this unprecedented day…”

            A man stood in front of the camera wearing a light jacket. “We aren’t sure what this conference is all about,” he began. “But we do know that the local sheriff’s office and state government will be represented here. And we know that they will be addressing the monster crisis that has so suddenly gripped the world...”

            Michael watched, a half chewed piece of sandwich still in his mouth. How long had he been asleep? Wilde had mentioned a press conference scheduled for the day of the attack, and Mister Marx had helped to organize it. But surely they could not have gotten underway so soon? He turned the volume up as a split screen image came up. One side showed the platform where the conference was to take place, the other showed the reporter.

            Upon the stage were a number of chairs, a lectern at the front covered in microphones, and a space out front for an audience. It seemed like they closed the entirety of Main Street off. “Can you give us a sense of the mood there?” the anchor was asking.

            “It’s very tense,” came the reply. “As you can see, the crowds are packing in to hear what officials have to say. The Governor is to speak first, followed by local representatives.” There was a pause in the report, and then the newsroom broadcast switched to a pre-recorded video. “We were able to get this footage earlier today, though.”

            It was of Kai. He stood stock still, looking directly into the camera. There came a startled exclamation from the news anchor. “My God, man! What is that? Was that one of the creatures that attacked the town?”

            “No, actually,” the reporter replied, seemingly just as surprised as his counterpart. “All of the eye-witnesses to the attack claim this one was helping to defend the town.  A total of four monsters in all were present at the scene. One officer said this one came swooping in and saved their lives.

            “It’s hard to believe a creature like this could be on our side,” the reporter continued, “but even when we approached it earlier, he was peaceful. Even friendly, if you can imagine that.” The footage showed the reporter engaging Kai in conversation. The giant Digimon gestured emphatically with his three good arms; the fourth had ben bandaged and slung about his shoulder using what looked like the old tarp they had hidden him in.

            “You mean to tell us it speaks?”

            “Intelligently as well,” the reporter said, the footage ending. “More eye-witnesses claim the attacker was clearly intelligent, as were the others. One thing is for sure, if it weren’t for this giant here and the others with him, there would be a lot of dead people here right now.”

            Michael finally swallowed his bite of sandwich and sighed with relief. At least they knew the Digimon were friendly. He wished his partners were there with him, though. It would have been a lot easier to stomach all this had they been present.

            Then the prerecorded tape switched to the hospital. It was half demolished. The other half seemed on the verge of collapsing, and it had been taped off accordingly. Michael sighed again, this time in amazement, as the tape replayed some of the images of the battle. He had never before seen himself digivolved.

            The hybrid saw himself on camera, on his knees, bloodied and burnt, barely able to stay conscious. And he remembered the sensation—the burning, searing pain of Tank’s _Terra Destroyer_ engulfing him as he took the full force of it. Unconsciously he held himself tight. Then his partners rushed up to him, helping him to his feet.

            “What you’re seeing here,” one of the newscasters explained, “is video recorded of the attack. It defies any explanation…” Isaac began to glow on screen. Cotramon followed shortly thereafter. As for himself, Michael seemed to regain his strength. He saw Tank back away, almost in pain. Then there was a brilliant flash, and when it faded, he stood there in his mega form, completely healed.

             Wow, he thought, watching it play out. Everything had taken notice of his transformation. Even now, the newscasters stopped their reporting just to stare at the footage and take stock of what they had seen. Then, “It seemed like a miracle to me,” the reporter said quietly.

            “Wait!” he exclaimed. “People are coming out onto the platform…” The split screen vanished and the scene on Main Street expanded to fill the empty space. “There’s the Governor, the local sheriff… And? Yes, two of the three figures from the footage we just showed you. The young man there was one of two missing persons connected with the initial sightings, Isaac Marx…”

            Michael jumped and did a double take to make sure. Yeah, it was them! Isaac and Cotramon were sitting on the stage right behind the Governor. Then the camera swung to the left and Kai’s enormous form filled the screen. As it did, a collective gasp of surprise, mingled with terror, rose up from the audience. Then the camera panned back to the human speakers.

            “Good afternoon,” the Governor began. What followed next, Michael mostly tuned out except to know that it was a brief summary of the events that led up to the present. He had locked his eyes on Cotramon, who sat with tail twitching so fiercely it nearly whipped Isaac’s leg on a couple of occasions.

            The Digimon was nervous. Why had they not waited for him, then? Michael would have gladly gotten up to speak on behalf of the Digimon. His partner was used to behind-the-scenes work, staying out of the limelight, and consequently the line of fire. He twiddled his thumbs as well, and glanced nervously about.

            Then he whispered something in Isaac’s ear which made the human glance at him in horror and shake his head. Obviously Isaac did not want to go on camera either. Michael almost laughed: they could face down a mega Digimon with stone-cold determination, but not a news camera. Conversely, after standing trail under the Sovereignty, Michael might have welcomed the chance to talk in front of other humans.

            Sheriff Wilde rose at that point to a soundless audience. He reported directly about the goings on at the hospital. “At approximately one o’clock yesterday afternoon, during examinations of the two extra-terrestrials, our county hospital was attacked,” he said.

            So it had only been a day?

            “Despite the attack,” and Wilde glanced behind him at Cotramon, “they are here to help. What occurred yesterday was an attack by a rogue faction of the creatures working to destroy the peace process before it even begins. If it had not been for them, it’s entirely possible our whole city could have been wiped out.”

            As soon as he finished the sentence, Wilde was bombarded with questions. What are they, who are they? Where did they come from? What do they want? Did he know if the federal government had a response to the invasion?

            “First of all, there is no invasion,” Wilde corrected. “You’ll get nowhere by spreading panic and misinformation.” Second, they were to meet with an envoy from the federal government later that day to discuss a response. “Third, they have made a request of us. To that end, I will let their delegation explain further.”

            Isaac and Cotramon both stood at the same time. “From Earth, Isaac Marx. From the Digimon Empire, Cotramon.” Wilde bowed out at that point, offering the podium to Michael’s two partners. He wished again that he were with them. Cotramon almost seemed to shy away from the camera flashes and Isaac put a hand on his back to keep him steady.

            Good ol’ Isaac, Michael thought fondly. Always that rock hard foundation of calm and collectedness. He was altogether different from Cotramon’s wild and fiery temperament. They were also assailed with questions, many of which were the same as Wilde had faced. Their inexperience in public speaking was painfully obvious as they had trouble subduing the crowd. Finally, Wilde returned to the podium to moderate for the two.

            “We’ll take this one question at a time,” he told the crowd, and pointed to a man off screen.

            “Calvin Davis, Tri-City Tribune,” he introduced himself and his publication. The sheriff bade him continue. “The burning question on everyone’s mind is What exactly are you creatures?”

            Isaac and Cotramon glanced at each other, and Michael inwardly smiled. At least they would get started with an easy question. His Digimon partner fielded the question with some relief evident in his voice. “We are called Digimon—at least that’s what the first of your kind called us forty years ago. In our language it translates to Digital Monster.”

            “And where do you come from?” the same reporter asked.

            “We come from a dimension alternate to your own,” Cotramon replied, getting into the swing of things. “It is a conflux data, electro-magnetic energy and physical matter that is made up of a number of different layers—or planes—each one a world in and of itself. It is connected to your world by digital gates which intersect Earth at different points. The gate we came through is located here in this city.”

            Wilde pointed to another reporter off screen who introduced himself as being from one of the national broadcasting companies. “Are you saying you’re a computer simulation?” he asked incredulously.

            Isaac narrowed his eyes and spoke before Cotramon had the chance. “They are as real as you and I. They bleed, they feel, and they have families just like us. I’ve seen their world, and it’s just as real as Earth. To reduce them to the level a computer program—however sophisticated—is an insult to the dignity and level of cultural advancement of these _people_.”

            Michael grinned as his partner emphasized the word _people_. It was the same reporter who had asked about an invasion, and Sheriff Wilde had brought his intense gaze down upon the man as well. The hybrid doubted if they would hear any more absurdities from the gathering after that. Wilde and Isaac had effectively put the man in his place.

            “Next question,” Wilde said, daring anyone else to make the same mistake.

            “Why contact Earth now?” someone asked.

* * *

          The little room was dark, save for a television monitor. The dimly lit room contained a desk with a map spread out across it, and a chair. And in the chair, the Enemy drummed his clawed finger on the desk, watching the same broadcast as his offspring. Anshar’s monitoring station—the very same outpost that the hybrid had visited on his first day in the Digital World—seldom passed along the transmissions it intercepted from Earth. The Sovereignty, until recently, had held very little interest in the human world.

            Knowledge was a basic tool of power, and the Enemy’s was considerable. Since the inception of the humans into his world, he had taken every opportunity to glean information from their world. He had seen the footage, therefore, of the hybrid digivolving. _EmeraldGreymon_. He drummed his fingers harder, mildly frustrated, and growled under his breath.

            His agent had underestimated the hybrid. More importantly, he had underestimated the bond between him and his partners. The human and the tamed Digimon had lent him enormous strength in that battle. Tank had perished for his lack of vision.

            Still, despite that, the Black Diamond found himself impressed by the speed at which his _son_ had digivolved. Where it had taken him years of discipline and sacrifice to achieve his mega form, the hybrid had accomplished the very same in only a month’s time. He had visited archives and studied the dark places in the Digital World, consulting with forces which not many of his kind knew existed.

            The Shadows were real enough to the inhabitants of the Digital World. But the Handra was only a myth to most. An icy prison, lost to time, where the spirits of unworthy Digimon spent eternity. But there were ways to commune with those spirits. And in his quest for power, he had sought the most powerful of the dark ones, the ancient spirit of a powerful Digimon; the one that had created the Handra in the first place.

            And it had passed along its secret. So the Enemy had surpassed the mega level, had broken the natural laws of the Digital World. He existed on a level so far above the rest, that the combined might of the Sovereignty and its armies had not been able to destroy him.

            And now it seemed a challenger might possibly have risen out of the human world. _EmeraldGreymon_ … Worse than that, the Digimon were seeking help from the humans to evacuate Digimon who could not fight. The potential for problems had increased exponentially in only a matter of minutes as he now learned that humans had agreed to this.

            Soon, Digimon would be pouring into the human world, guests of humans, bonding with them and learning to work together. Tamed Digimon would be turning up in droves to defend against him. The first evacuees were already at the gate, waiting to come through. More arrived every hour. And the humans had already begun to make arrangements. On the other side of the gate, transports had begun arriving en masse to shuttle the Digimon to their temporary homes among the humans.

            All in a day and a half. The Enemy touched a button, and then left the room.

* * *

          Millenniumon felt a jolt in his neck. The Enemy had summoned him once more. He turned from the window where he watched storm clouds rage and depressed a button on the wall next to him. “Assemble in the courtyard. We have been summoned.” Not more than five minutes later, he stepped out into the courtyard from his laboratory. This time there was no rain to greet him, but only the dry burst of lightning and its accompanying peal of thunder.

            Apocalymon had appeared from an archway that led to his own palace—humble in decoration, but unimaginable in size. The enormous Digimon hovered above the stone floor, a collection of planes and angles forming a regular polyhedron that made up his base. Rising from its top was the Destroyer himself, unnaturally long in limb.

            One might have thought him ridiculous, except that Millenniumon knew the truth. Inside his armored core was death; long, chained claws, could explode from him in an instant, grabbing and crushing to death anything within his long reach. He could also rain death from afar, destroying entire cities in that manner. While he himself was slow, the speed at which he could maneuver his claws was blinding. He had earned his title, the Destroyer of Worlds, with great efficiency.

            Now, he was still and quiet, surveying the assembly which he had personally chosen. Millenniumon had provided the necessary psychological profiles to seek. Each of them had to have experience commanding troops. But they also needed a sense of racial superiority that Millenniumon found disgusting. Their physical strength was not an issue.  The Enemy would see that they had what power they needed.

            That was why they assembled now, standing stone still, waiting to be addressed by their new master. None of the three would receive a collar as Millenniumon had. Their loyalty had been insured by the promise of ruling Earth the same way the Sovereignty ruled the Digital World—under a central authority that would be the Black Diamond.

            He now appeared before them, miniscule compared to the surrounding mega Digimon. But none of them would dare mistake the aura coming off of him. For them, it was the first time they had ever seen him.

            The Enemy stood shorter than them, only a meter or so taller than the average human. He wore sparse armor, leather and adorned with short, squarish spikes upon the shoulder pieces. A leather skirt draped around his legs, fastened to which was his curved sword. And his head was covered by a spiked helmet which hid his eyes. The exposed limbs were covered in black scales, a line of equally black hair trailing down his biceps, ending at the elbow. The same feature appeared on his tail, an appendage about the thickness and length of his arm.

            When he spoke, his voice was deep and cavernous. White eye-teeth glinted with the flashes of lightning above. But no one missed a word he said. His voice seemed to drown out the perpetual rumbling of thunder from Neflhiem’s sky.

            “You are my chosen generals,” he said quietly. All of them heard the words. “You will invade Earth in three days, when the seal that binds me here is finally broken. You will act on Earth in my name, with all of my power at your disposal.”

            He turned toward Millenniumon, who involuntarily took a half step back. Even under that helmet, his eyes glared daggers through the mega. “My _loyal_ servant,” he questioned. Millenniumon answered. “My army is ready to advance upon Musplshiem?”

            “Yes, my lord.”

            “And the new generals’ armies are also ready?”

            “Yes, my lord. It is as you say.”

            You will serve me, or you will die, the Enemy told him. This exchange was not a briefing, but a warning. Millenniumon had done his duty, had made the troops as perfect as he could manage, and had specially modified those that would be used in the invasion of the Fire City to withstand the flames of Musplshiem. If he had made a mistake, his hopes for freedom would be for nothing, for he would be dead.

            Only by serving his master could he help the hybrid. He had provided the challenges that lead to the remarkable digivolutions. The agents of the Enemy were his creation. The Chimeramon that now tutored the hybrid had been his protégé. And in saving the life of that mutant Digimon, he had created for himself the hope of shedding his master’s control.

            Suddenly he felt a stab of pain in his chest. Anger flickered across the Black Diamond’s face, almost as if he had seen Millenniumon’s thoughts. The mega closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he opened them again, the Enemy was again turned to address his new generals. Try as he might, the Enemy could not extinguish this hope.

_Fin_


	19. Into the Fire

            Musplshiem, by necessity, had to be built as another domed city. Much like its sister, Ea, Musplshiem existed by a miracle of engineering for which no one could account. The conditions outside, though, were the exact opposite of the underwater metropolis. Instead of ocean pressures and ice-cold depths, this city was surrounded on all sides by temperatures that, on a cool day, would leave the surface semi-molten. Even the most powerful Digimon could not survive in those conditions for very long.

            She sparkled under a hot, red sun, like flame-bathed ruby encased in gold. Built around the gate that led to the next plane under her, the city was also a fortress. Her citizens were sturdy folk, and her master, the Sovereign Zhuqaiomon, watched carefully for any signs of unrest. One might have thought she guarded something else—dark and sinister, that if it could be destroyed, it should be.

            One would have been right: Outside the city, ten miles to the east, was another gate. Around it was its own fortress, guarded by the most powerful Digimon that the Imperial Guard could spare. This gate led to the domain of the Enemy, and had been sealed off for decades in a vain attempt to contain his power.

            Presently, the Enemy watched the shimmering crystal dome of Musplshiem intently, a thin smile spread across his scaly lips. The time had finally come. Millenniumon, behind him, stood motionless, waiting for orders. Opposite him was the enormous form of Apocalymon, mutated and with a malevolence that, in some ways, even surpassed the Enemy. Lanky arms crossed his chest, and from one five-pronged claw snapped open and closed with anticipation.

            Apocalymon dared speak: “What are your orders, Master?” Even his voice rang with excitement. Disciplined, alert and calm as he was, the murderous Digimon could not entirely suppress his urge to destroy. The Enemy had assiduously cultivated that aspect of his general’s personality, until it became an obsession, held in check only by the fear and awestruck wonder he felt for  his Master’s power.

            “Millenniumon,” the Black Diamond turned, glowering up at the fearsome mega. “Your troops are ready?” As it had so many times before, the Enemy’s voice held the edge of warning. He would brook no disappointments this time.

            “Yes, my Lord,” he replied, risking a glance at Apocalymon. The army he had created was specially modified to attack from outside of Musplshiem’s dome. They alone would withstand the heat of the fire plane. And Millenniumon had worked diligently to complete his task. Their first strike would be devastating. But…

            “Very good,” the Enemy replied darkly. Very rarely did he allow emotion into his voice, but the satisfaction was evident. “Then it is time. Apocalymon!” he whirled around to his general, the anticipation glistening in his pitch black eyes. “Leave nothing…”

* * *

          “So far we have evacuated roughly two thirds from the gate in Anshar,” Azulongmon explained. His long face appeared in one section of the immense screen of Zhuqaiomon’s chambers. “The humans are surprisingly efficient,” he grumbled.

            “Likewise,” Ebonwumon interjected, “the evacuation of Yggdrassil is proceeding on schedule. VictoryGreymon tells me that Kishar will begin evacuating residence within the next twenty-four hours.” The giant tortoise reached one heavy paw over and flipped a switch. Baihumon appeared on another portion of the monitor. “How is the evacuation of Valhalla?”

            “Well,” he replied. He thanked the Shadows for his forethought in preparing his citizens early. “We are nearly ninety percent evacuated at this point.” The tiger nodded courteously to Zhuqaiomon. “That is including all of the residents from your city.”

            Zhuqaiomon nodded back in reply. “I have stationed an extra garrison at the gate and around the entrances to the main dome in case of an attack,” he said. “I am confident we can repel any attack long enough to evacuate the rest of the city.”

            That was assuming that the Enemy would not simply destroy the dome. But he had never shown a propensity for wholesale destruction before. During the Liberation War, the Enemy had kept the infrastructure of the Digital World intact. Only Yggdrassil had seen widespread devastation of that sort. And even then, he had spared the city itself.

            But the other Sovereignty saw the disconcerted stare looking passed the monitor. “You don’t seriously believe he would destroy the city itself,” Ebonwumon questioned him, now concerned for his own city. The stores of ironwood he had helped to cultivate would be lost, along with any chance of restoring the forests.

            “I don’t…” The screens flickered, along with the lights. Zhuqaiomon felt the first tremors. “I must go! The city is under attack!”

* * *

          The other three simultaneously watched his portion of their respective screens switch off. For a moment, none of them spoke, too surprised to do anything. Azulongmon came to his senses first, and flew open the emergency communication channels. The rest of the Sovereignty, save Zhuqaiomon, appeared at once.

            “The seal on Neflhiem has been broken,” he stated curtly.” Those that had just joined them shouted to be heard over one another until Azulongmon shouted them down with a screeching blast of static through their speakers. “Begin sending your citizens through the gates immediately. Baihumon,” he addressed the beastly Digimon, “Since you have nearly completed your evacuation, will you send word to the humans that the attack on our world has begun?”

            “I will send a messenger without delay,” he replied. “I will also inform them to expect a major influx of refugees, and I will recall the hybrid and his partners.” Azulongmon gave him a sharp look as if to say they did not need their help any further. He growled under his helmet, but assented. With that, Baihumon disappeared

            Azulongmon addressed the others, still a note of annoyance in his voice. “Proceed with your evacuations as quickly as you can,” he said. The others nodded. “I will send word to the Emperor.”

* * *

          Dry Run Creek had been cordoned off, which was becoming a familiar sight to the residents of Michael’s small town. This time, however, it was a military cordon that stretched the entire length—about a mile—of the park’s long and winding trails. Michael stood watching with his partners, gazing at the masses of Digimon that were filing through. They would appear out of nowhere, and file through to a makeshift processing center.

            From there, Michael was told, they would be given papers and assigned a temporary home. The smaller Digimon, those who were young enough not have digivolved to rookie, were sent in groups of three and four to households that had volunteered to take in refugees until the crisis abated. Those who had digivolved were sent out singly to such homes.

            And rather to his surprise, the number of families volunteering staggered him. He, Cotramon and the Sovereignty had expected a critical shortage of host families, so that the Digimon coming through the gate would be shoehorned into high school gymnasiums and homeless shelters. No such shortage had occurred, however, as household after household lined up to take in who they could.

            The local town had been inundated early on in the process. Trucks, vans, busses and aircraft had been lined up to facilitate the relocation of refugees to other areas. And this was not the only gate through which the Digimon had come. Thousands upon thousands were showing up in cities and towns across the country. Not to be outdone, countries in Europe and Asia had also begun to take in refugees, curbing some of the influx into North America.

            New York City, it appeared, was the most heavily affected area by far. The citizens of Musplshiem and Valhalla (which were just above Neflhiem) had been evacuated first, through a gate which led directly to the heart of downtown New York. Thankfully, with the coordination of the Sovereignty and several members of the Imperial Guard, they had been prepared accordingly. The precision with which the two worlds had worked together was as astounding as the numbers flooding earth.

            Even as he and his partners stood watching, the procession seemed endless. Digimon with packs of personal belongings, small bags, or even pushing carts of the blob-shaped “in-training” Digimon trotted past him with the curious look of the tourist mixed with evacuee. On several occasions, they had seen him and stopped to gawk. Sometimes the passersby would be superimposed on the memory of his arrival in Anshar, and he would expect a rock to come flying toward him or Isaac.

            No such attack occurred, however, as it seemed they had accepted him as one of their own. After all, if the Sovereignty cleared him, and the Emperor trusted him, what reason did they have to fear Michael? These awkward moments only lasted for a few seconds, though, before the pressure behind the gawkers forced them to move on.

            It was about noon on the second day when the news broke. A messenger had arrived in New York, forcing his way through evacuees. The towering Digimon carried nothing with him, and was of such immense size that he was certainly there on a mission. Bending low, he had asked for the ranking officer overseeing the operation, and stated that he had been sent by the Sovereign Baihumon with urgent news.

            The phone call came in twenty minutes later, and the trio of partners was summoned immediately. Mister Marx accompanied them, having brought them over in the family pick-up. Wilde stood, waiting for a military officer to finish with a phone call. He was a terse man in his late forties with a clean shaven face and close cut hair. He spoke in short phrases, with a very pointed tone.

            The officer glanced at them when they walked in, thanked the other end of the line, and hung up. “So these are the three responsible for all this?” he asked the Sheriff, who nodded and introduced them. “Colonel Pierce,” he said, extending his hand to them in turn. “Good to see you again, Carl.” Mister Marx nodded to the man.

            “A messenger arrived in New York twenty-two minutes ago,” the colonel said, placing his hands on a metal desk. “The three of you are requested to return to the Digital World as soon as possible.” The man sighed and looked over Isaac and then over Michael, then shook his head. “You’re only kids, bloody hell… _You_ ,” he pointed at Cotramon. “I understand you are a veteran. You’ve served in combat before, yes?”

            The Digimon nodded. “Years ago in our first war to liberate the Digital World. I was a combat medic.” He lowered his gaze to the floor. The colonel had not said it, but Cotramon had surmised the truth. The Sovereignty would not have called them back so soon unless the seal on Neflhiem had been broken. The war had begun.

            “And you support sending children into war?”

            Cotramon jerked his head back up and growled at the colonel. “Absolutely not! These two may be young, but they are far from being children. Both of them have demonstrated their strength and loyalty. More than that, though, they’ve shown dedication to a higher destiny—one that encompasses the fate of both our worlds, Colonel.”

            The colonel grunted. “I would tend to agree with you. I saw the footage…” Then he rose from his bent posture, standing a good six foot and two inches. “But I can’t support sending them into battle again. However, I’ve been required to render all service available to your government on behalf of the United States. That, unfortunately, requires me to ask if the two of you will go back and fight again.”

            Michael and his human partner looked each other in the eye. They too had divined the truth, and both of them saw the knife’s edge that they now walked upon. They could stay, help refugees and hope the Sovereignty and their armies would be able to fend off the Enemy. Or they could go, and hope that their added strength tipped the balance. Not a moment of hesitation passed between them as they both chorused their agreement.

            They left the tent discussing their plans. The three would need to leave immediately for Anshar. The digi-gate from Yggdrassil had shifted back to Anshar for the moment, which had coincided with the evacuation plans perfectly. But there was no time to lose. No time for a last minute meal, or to grab a change of clothes. Isaac would have to make do, so would Michael. Cotramon urged them onward.

            “No, wait,” Michael paused. “I can’t leave yet.”

            “Why not?” Cotramon asked him. He twitched his tail.

            Isaac stopped short as well, nodding. “We have to say good-bye this time.” A multitude of scenarios passed through his head, each one ending badly. He would never forgive himself if he forwent saying farewell. “What if we don’t see them again?”

            Cotramon had to admit it was a distinct possibility. He had known that his original assignment had come with some risk. And he had made sure to bid his loved-ones goodbye in the weeks before he left. He had gone so far as to put his end-of-life affairs in order, and visit the local shrine for good luck. He could not reasonably expect the earthlings to go without that same ritual. “We’ll meet back here in an hour,” he suggested.

            Isaac agreed, and went to his father who waited by the truck. Michael sighed. “I’ll have my parents meet us down here. It would take too long to walk there and back again.” He pulled out a cellular phone and dialed his home number. The phone rang once and then Mister Delancy answered the receiver. “Hey, dad? Yeah, it’s me… Uh huh, everything’s… Yeah. But can you and mom come down to the gate? Right… thanks…”

            He hung up and stuffed the device in his pocket, where his hand brushed against the digivice the Sovereignty had given him. “They’re on their way,” he told his partner. He pulled out the digivice and fingered it. It still held a warmth in it that seemed to resonate within him. Spotting a bench nearby, he took a seat and waited.

            Cotramon pulled up next to him and watched him thumb the device. The line of refugees continued, and every so often Michael would pull up the digidex information on a random passerby. The assortment of creatures and colors played out a like a living stained glass window. And so it continued for a while, the two of them sitting in companionable silence, until Cotramon coughed to draw attention to himself.

            “What’s wrong?” Michael asked him.

            “I was going to ask you the same question,” the Digimon replied. “You’re nervous.” Understandably so. Michael had been through his share of battles, both physical and mental. He was tough, the Digimon thought. And thinking back on it, Michael’s fortitude seemed less to do with his attachment to the Enemy than it did with his human lineage.

            “Everything is going to turn out fine,” Cotramon told him. “I’ve learned a lot since I met you, Michael. And the most important lesson you’ve taught me—one I should have learned a long time ago—is to not give up hope.”

            The hybrid nodded solemnly. “It isn’t the rest of the world I’m worried about,” he clarified. “Isaac had a good point: what if I don’t see my family again? I don’t know if my parents could handle that again…”

            He just got home, was only just reunited with his father and mother, and now he was being asked to leave again. Who knew what they would find in the Digital World when they returned? Or how long they would there? Or if… Michael suddenly jumped back as Cotramon had his claw an inch from the hybrid’s muzzle.

            “Snap out of it,” his partner ordered.

            “Sorry.”

            Cotramon had never been much of a counselor. Despite his medical training, he was not a people person, and in the moments leading up to a patient’s death, all he could ever do was sit in silence. Afterwards, he regretted not having said anything. He had always hoped just being there was enough.

            He could listen, though. And he often had. The Digimon he treated in the war were usually much older than him—twenty, sometimes thirty or forty years. He had been young, and listened to their advice and stories. But looking at his partner, Cotramon felt old himself. He had forgotten how young the two earthlings were. Colonel Pierce had been right—they were just children compared to him.

            “It’s okay,” Cotramon replied at length. “At least they’ll know where you are this time.” Michael gave him a pointed look. “Listen, if something happens, you’ll have told them good-bye, and they’ll know it was for a worthy cause…”

            “I don’t think they would see it that way,” Michael said. “Why do they even want us to come back in the first place? What do they expect us to do?” The Sovereignty was the most powerful group of mega Digimon outside the Enemy’s forces. They had armies to work with, and who-knew-what for weapons.

            Cotramon twitched his tail. “I’m pretty sure it isn’t the Sovereignty, but Baihumon specifically…” If he were right, then Azulongmon was undoubtedly furious that his counterpart would have asked them to return. Michael’s inclusion in the affairs of the Digital World should have been over by now. But everything pointed to him having a greater destiny. “He knows how powerful you are,” Cotramon continued. “You are unique. A hybrid with the power of both a human and Digimon partner.” It was a wild combination of circumstances.

            Michael did not reply. Instead, he sat and thought for what seemed to be an eternity to his partner. Cotramon remained quiet beside him, though, waiting. Finally a car rolled up and deposited Michael’s parents. They strode quickly toward him, and their son stood to meet them. His partner remained seated, head down.

            “I take it this has something to do with _them_?” Mister Delancy questioned his son. He jerked a thumb at the procession beyond them and cast a disparaging glance at Cotramon. “What do they want from you now?”

            Michael looked at the procession, emerging from a swirling vortex that his parents could not see. “They want us to go back. The war… it’s started…” He brought his gaze back to his father, looking at him straight in the eye. “I need to go,” he said. He felt a pit rise in his stomach. “I’ll be okay, but I have to go.”

            Mister Delancy drew his mouth into a thin line and his face flushed. “But why!” he demanded. “Haven’t they taken enough from you!” Hadn’t they taken away enough from him? The question hung in the air, loud enough for even some of the long line of Digimon to hear it. A few cast wayward glances as they shuffled past. More quietly, he asked, “What do they expect you to do? You aren’t a soldier, and neither is that Marx boy. You’re just kids.”

            In truth, Michael could not answer the question. What could he do? Maybe they just wanted to keep an eye on him again. He hesitated. “Maybe I can help somehow,” he suggested half-heartedly. “I don’t know how. But I do know it’s the right thing to do.” Michael paused. “I just wanted to make sure I told you goodbye this time.”

            “You can’t go,” Eugene protested. “Not for a bunch of strangers. I won’t allow it. After all, I’m still your—”

            “Cotramon isn’t a stranger, dad.” The Digimon looked up from where he was sitting. “He’s just as much my family as you are. And if he needs me, I’m going.” Michael put a hand on his partner’s shoulder and gripped him tightly.

            Mister Delancy stuttered a moment, then burst out, “He’s not even human!”

            “Neither am I!” Michael shouted back.

            A long pause followed. Michael had transformed, Eugene realized. More than just his physical appearance had changed, too. Before the disappearance, his son was quiet and kept to himself. He never got involved with anything, or took sides in conflicts. Now he was adamant about joining these creatures, that it was the right thing to do. Whether this was maturity or youthful naiveté, Mister Delancy could not tell.

            “I have a chance to do some good,” Michael sighed. “Isn’t that worth the risk?” His father stared at him, desperately. Suddenly the boy wrapped his arms around both his parents, hugging them tightly. Eugene felt hot tears soak into his shirt. He returned the embrace. “I don’t want to go,” he heard his son say. “I don’t want to leave you again.”

            Then don’t! Eugene wanted to shout. But all he could do was stand there, caught up in the embrace of his child. There was no changing his mind about it; Michael was leaving. The boy let him go and Mister Delancy held him at arm’s length. “If you come back…” he trailed off, struggling to find words.

            “When he comes back,” Mister Marx’s voice corrected him. Isaac strolled up behind his father, and Kai’s massive form loomed behind him. “When they come back,” the elder Marx insisted. “We’ll figure it all out.”

 Fin

**Author's Note:**

> For more information on the universe, and find out more about the characters involved, check out https://digimon-encounters.blogspot.com/ or like our Facebook page: Digimon: Encounters.


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